Mountains

You, towering guards of the horizon

Sentinels of the vast scape

Worn, formidable watchmen of the lower earth

Your face has been beaten and washed ten thousand times ten thousand

Is it any wonder it looks so worn

Gray and cracked, not the youthful green of the fields

Your edifice looks forlorn

Wearied of seeing the sky and earth roll over and stay under

You seem even more tired than the hills

But your peaks betray your hidden sentiment

You can’t but raise your hands and vaults to the sky

In jubilant, ecstatic praise

The high places of false gods have been removed from you

And you can sing again the high praise of your Maker

As you stand confident and look up