One foot in front of the other,
Down mountain paths we trod.
Security on the way to the summit
And green views from ranges high
Such strange beauty in endless magnitude.
When the smallest leaf upon a tree
Is a miracle, how can we feel the life
We all see?

A sparrow fallen, six million dead.
The beginnings’ end.
The mountain stillness quenches a sigh
To know all things equal, by and by.
My soul born, reborn again.
The earth abideth on is spin.
Who cares when beginnings end.

Each foot must choose its own path.
To be free is not to be independent.
We must lose what possessions hath,
Dwell not on a single path.

Earn it and spend it are not as mighty as a dove;
Love is the stuff mountains are made of