The hills were alive. They were filled with life and breath and song and dance, and we were glad. The nights were populated by terrors, and we feared. And the mornings–ah! The mornings. We wept for the mornings, for they sang a song too lofty for us to understand.
And the Christ-followers came.
They told us the song that the hills were singing, and we sang for joy. The night terrors were exorcised, and we danced in freedom. And the mornings–the morning song we heard from afar, and we wept, for the gift was too great for us to bear.
And they came.
The cold, hard, steel, the progress, with their hard eyes and hard hearts and hard thoughts, flattening the hills and dimming the stars. And the morning–alas! The mornings. The song was drowned in whirring and clacking.
And we flee to the hills, but always they follow.
But there shall come a new day, and all shall be washed away, and Christ will hold us near.
And the hills will sing, and there shall be no night there, but an everlasting morning, and Christ will be our light.
And we shall sing the song of the redeemed, and the sons of the morning will weep, for we shall sing a song they do not understand.