I lift my eyes unto the hills
whose secrets stand unknown;
below my feet, the river spills
over the jagged stone.

And what shall come from mountain height,
from summits sharp and steep?
The breaking of the mornig light
awaking me from sleep.

And what shall come from tumbled stone
the current chases on?
The icy notes flung out and flown
to fill the bright'ning dawn.

So from the heights and from the depths
your mercy comes to me:
You name, O God, my hope and help
inscribed on sky and scree.

For you built up the mountain peaks
that bite into the sky,
its beauty spread out as a feast—
and thus you feed my eye.

And you poured out the flowing stream
to water thirsty lands.
My panting soul drinks in the gleam
of mercy from your hands.

The Spokane River at Riverside State Park, Spokane, Washington By I, Murderbike, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2232651

Written at a farmhouse outside Charlottsville, VA, on a Porter’s Gate retreat:

Our songs drown out the buzzing of the bees,
but we will fade like grass beneath your feet.
The bees will still be singing when we're gone,
but for a moment, Lord, you have our song.

Before the mountain ridges touched the stars,
before we blossom here, O God, you are.
Our refuge and our rock through all the years,
and when we leave, you still will hold us near.

Our blindest lights outshine the fireflies,
but oh, the wonder when they meet our eyes!
Our burning days are briefer than their flare:
We pass away like breath upon the air.

O, teach us then to count our little days:
The wisdom of our hearts will teach us praise.
And though we know the night is coming on,
you fill us with your mercy in the dawn.

We wake to birdsong in the morning sun;
before the night falls, all our songs are done.
The sun will rise again upon the land;
we will be gone, and still be in your hand.

Western honey bee visiting flowers By Louise Docker – https://www.flickr.com/photos/aussiegall/6105263663, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16416449