With every grueling inch I climb this upon this mountainside
He stands always just nearby to help, to point, to guide.
And lifts me up again after the next time I backslide.
(Which likely was a consequence of my shortsighted pride)
This climb gets steeper yet though I've been at it now for years.
Slipping frequently despite the lessons and the tears.
My fallen state a blindfold when the tough terrain appears.
The same missteps recurring; I react to my old fears.
I try to keep my focus on that heavenly plateau
Beside the mountain spring from which refreshing waters flow.
Where I'll recline in grass more soft than any that I know
And, resting, feel His Spirit as the gentle breezes blow.
But often times this load I carry seems to weigh a ton
And thinking of plateaus and grass I look up and see none.
Then, seeing every step I'd taken was a foolish one,
I drop it, let Him carry me, and say "Thy will be done."