Of all the hills I climbed to find my gods,
of all the high places where I wore my knees to bone,
this I will tell you now, and write it in the dust
for those who come behind:
My help is the Maker—
the one who hammered the mountains flat,
who spoke the sun into its blinding furnace.
His hands, not the hill’s hard shoulder.
He will not let my foot be thrown down.
He will not let the dark swallow my ankle.
He who keeps me does not know the weight of closing eyes.
Sleep is a country He has never visited,
a foreign tongue He does not speak.
He who keeps me does not blink.
No sleep. No slow nodding off.
He who keeps me
does not doze in the heat of the afternoon.
The watchman of Israel
has eyelids of flint.
He does not dream while my enemies dig my grave.
The Lord is my keeper.
The Lord is my shade at my right hand—
a shadow welded to my skin,
a wall of coolness when the day-star rages to scorch me dead.
So I lift my head, a footsore pilgrim.
The road goes on, but the Keeping One goes with me.
My coming in, my going out—He holds them both.
From this time forth and even forevermore.
Thank you for stopping by and spending time here. Your presence truly means the world to me. If this piece resonated with you, feel free to like, share, comment, or reblog—I’d love to hear your heart. Until we meet again in this space, I’m sending you love and abundant blessings.
With grace and truth,
Fay Ann Swearing
The Inspirational Room by Fay Ann Swearing 
