Mountain Moving

The mountains stand so tall—

rugged rock against the sky.

And You ask me to move them—why?

You know my hands are small—

they bruise and break and bleed

with every strategy I try.

And the mountains stand, unmoved.

I have no mustard seed—

I’ve looked, digging with my hands

in my own dirt.

And how my fingers hurt,

emerging empty in my need.

I do not understand.

And still the mountains stand, unmoved.

But I misunderstand.

This task You give, though mine,

is not meant for me alone.

Maker of the mountains on Your throne,

You accomplish all the wonders

You have planned—

the mountains will be moved,

and I, reproved.

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