You came to this mountain bearing gifts, thinking a prophet lived on the summit,
thinking he would see eternity in your eyes and invite you to his retinue.
Cupbearer, harp player, royal food taster—anything to escape
the lower life you were living, which is the burden of serving self.
If only he would transport me to the realm of visions and angels,
you thought, their flaming swords chasing away this depression,
then I could walk through the valley with more spring in my step.
Enough of this trudging, let me sip of the joy juice!
So you gathered your myrrh and incense, all the gold in your jewelry box,
to venture up the rockface. When you arrived, only a note pinned to a tree:
Go back down with these my words, and be the city, be the hill.
Be the channel of grace to lead others to a higher plane.
Some people are ample structures, others noble vessels,
but you, you are a highway of holiness, hence this restless wandering.
Lie down, instead, and let the multitudes come. Your willingness is their entrance
to a kingdom and blessed is that calling, kissing the earth, bearing many.