Upon the outcrop across the bay
I stare at the distant cliff
Thinking like weather a thought so grey
My spirit could not again lift.
 
I imagine a climber upon the face
With only a pick and pawl.
Pick a firm hole or plunge to the base,
With scrupulous care she crawled.
 
And now I couldn't banish the thought -
What trust did she place in God,
As gently her sinew the cliff how she fought
Within, left me dreadfully awed.
 
What if she slipped and lost her hold
And couldn't then clutch on again?
How could the Lord, with His arms, then enfold
And not destroy gravity then?
 
Or could He save her by making her strong
With grace climb as best she could span,
that not any gust nor crack in her prong
Could drop her from His Holy Hand?
 
And then I recall how Jesus could rest
Before the disciples would cry
Why don't you care? - what faith they professed
And again as He hung crucified.
 
Upon the outcrop across the bay
I wonder if I must expect
To always profess my faith seized in clay
When only Christ was born perfect.