The Believer's Mountains

Not to the mount, where fire and smoke
Jehovah's face concealed,
When loud to wandering man he spoke,
To make his law revealed—
Not to the awful splendor there
Can turn my fearful eye:
To hear its thunderings, and to dare
Its lightnings, were to die.

Not on the mount where Moses stood,
The promised land to see
Across the waves of Jordan's flood,
Is yet the place for me.
My spirit could not bear to take
That fair and glorious view,
Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,
To try the waters through.

Not to the mount where Christ appeared
At once so heavenly bright;
While they, who heard the Father, feared,
And fell before the light—
Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,
Do I his footsteps trace:
His closer followers far, than I,
Attain that higher place.

But, to the mount without a name,
Where Jesus sat and taught,
I daily would assert my claim,
To share the bread he brought.
His words before that multitude
Dropt to his chosen few,
Are manna for my morning food,
My soul's sweet evening dew.

If to Temptation's mount I go,
That mount exceeding high,
My Lord, again rebuke our foe,
And bid the tempter fly.
No kingdom may I seek, but thine;
And let my glory be
A light, reflected pure from thine—
My portion, life with thee!

Oft to the mount of midnight shade,
Of solitude and prayer,
Ascend, my soul, be not afraid
Thy Guide to follow there.
The height and stillness of the scene,
When thou that path hast trod,
Forbids this world to rush between
A spirit and her God.

The mount whereon my Saviour stood,
And o'er the city wept—
Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,
While his disciples slept—
There may I go, yet not to sleep
Till Jesus be betrayed;
But, as he went, to pray and weep
O'er sufferings sin hath made.

And to the solemn, shuddering mount,,
Where Christ received the cup
Of death, to offer us a fount
Of life, must I go up.
And I must look upon his wo,
On that empurpled tree,
To learn how vast a debt I owe,
By what he paid for me.

Thence to the mount of Galilee
May I the way pursue,
With joy my risen Lord to see,
Ere he ascends from view.
For lo! the heavens their gates unfold
To take their coming King:
His angels harp on strings of gold,
And "Hallelujah!" sing.

Now on Mount Zion may I seek
My shield—my strong, high tower;
And thence, though here so dark and weak,
Be clothed with light and power.
Then at that holy mountain's top,
My soul, no more to roam,
Unfurl thy wings—thine ashes drop;
And gain thy glorious home.