To Move the Mountains
The mountain peaks are much too steep to climb
no matter how I move my anxious feet,
when melodies of life have lost their rhyme,
and darkest silence offers no retreat.
In ragged clothes that I am forced to claim,
I step unsure upon life’s numbered page,
a target far off course of youthful aim —
to walk with kings was then my pompous rage.
Yet when I look to hills beyond each peak
where One has promised when I walk in tune
with Him, I will find needed rest I seek,
like ospreys sleeping near soft, sandy dune.
Though paupers weep and kings will sometimes cry,
with God, tall mountains do not seem too high.
© Freeda Baker Nichols