Hello, my precious world, my vale of dreams!
It's I, the child you never really knew.
I've grown a little older, but it seems
I often cannot see the grace in you.
We two have traveled far with your hand leading.
I've followed where you've led and follow still.
The sun is overhead, but fast receding
And still I sweat and strain to climb this hill.
Where are we going, sir? My bones are aching.
Where is the promised land, the garden fair?
My throat is full of dust. My heart is breaking.
The peace I long for; will I find it near?
What is your peace to me, or all your pain?
You'll follow where I will, turn at my rein.
George Chadderdon © 2003