Some often speak of this hill with pretension 

Assuming the knowledge of all its heights

Others know this as the Mount of Redemption

Illumination in the darkest of nights

 

Its color is brown with no shiny hue

For it is covered with dirt of a kind

And because of the consistent due

Mud slips down like an aged mind

 

And upon the gradual ascent

There is a sometimes shining gleam

Rolling through the muddy cement

The Sun hits it with a beam

 

This emerald stone is always rising

Mostly up, but sometimes down

If the stone's heart is rightly prizing

It ascends to the mountain's crown

 

And there is a sight that some can see

As this stone so gently glides

Sometimes the mud like a tree

Changes form as it rides

 

And the mud once filthy and brown

Turns into a gleaming green

Like a once dead ghost town 

Teaming with life so sacred and seen

 

Yet the most amazing thing is this sight

There is a being always there

Shining as the true light

But never for the stone to impair

 

He pushes as His choice

Arresting the stone to every perch

And there the echoes of his voice

Gently, "I will build my church."