Cresting a familiar hill,
A land far drawn away from waning time,
An outpost in a churning sea of change,
The stones peak slightly more into a toothy smile,
The grass retreating like a parting beard,
Rolling underneath a sky reshuffled,
Molding to a slightly warbled shape,
Here when big and small, when cold and hot,
When sprinting and when hobbling.

Eighteen sum three,
Three units fallen short,
These rocking stones on stones,
Creak out like pestle on their leaning mortar,
Wafting spices short of twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait three rhymes" the clock explained,
"You take up size like hills in delta plains,
It shan't be long to dance with mountains in the rain."

Leveled ground,
He makes the very land sturdy and straight,
Drenching and molding it with grace,
We can trust the rock that He placed,
The rejected cornerstone,
That smooths out and shatters walls,
That we can stomp on and feel His integrity,
That we can fall on and know He won't go away,
That we can kneel on and know His security and faithfulness,
His grace paves the narrow way and calls us to cast down our shackles of sin,
For they cling to our wrists in bits and we must cast them down with determined shakes.