The English Hillside (A Resurrection Poem)

The contours of His grace in hills reside,
In rock and pool and sky earth’s beasts abide.
Down watered crag creased streams tumble and roll,
By rounding hills and boot clad feet they stroll.
The thumping feet downward the dirt firm tread,
As strong winds buffet, turning white cheeks red.

What once deemed good by Word now dragged below,
At peak or depth eyes catch no glimpse of woe.
A mountain’s slumber hidden from our stare,
Its mottled face in time suspended there.
A bruise upon the face of cool cracked earth,
From high cast down by tree brings life of curse.

In valley low humbled eyes will yet see,
This Word wrought scene show forth His majesty.
His hands no path or lake or crag erase,
While men the lines of stony hills they trace.
These mighty mounds of splendour will awake,
When earth and sky meet in more glorious fate.