The Mountains of the Holy Land guard the presence of the Lord. The sun rises on the pilgrims as on Him.
Those feet once walked beside a lake,
those hands a catch of fish,
those eyes saw sparrows quarrelling
and fingers thinning grain.
But mountains hold a presence felt,
they contemplate the scene,
and keep in silhouette a memory
of all that’s seen.
So I behold a rising sun
that broke to greet His brow;
now breaking dawn
greets breaking bread
and tastes the grape as wine.