It was a rugged, jagged mountain,
Of solid rock and stone,
A place of total isolation,
Barren and alone.
No trees ... no shrubs ... no greenery,
Nothing living there,
No crawling creatures underfoot,
Nor birds up in the air.
Certainly, no Gethsemane,
More like Golgotha Hill,
Not a sound for miles around,
The air, stifling and still.
A harsh and splendid beauty,
Shaped and painted through the years,
Baked as in the devil's kiln,
Then cooled by heaven's tears.
Its tallest point was high enough
To kiss a crystal sky,
And be embraced by pure white clouds,
That gently drifted by.
But the mountain's sordid sparseness,
Shocked man's very soul,
Such silence and such emptiness
Out of man's control.
Yet a Spartan beauty was revealed,
Tainted ... but untouched,
Trespassers were unwelcome,
Intruders felt rebuffed.
This place, some sort of monument,
Meant to be left alone,
But a monument to whom or what?
What lay within those stones?
How many centuries old, this place?
How many eons past?
Once it must have been alive,
Why did its life not last?
Who was here before me?
Who will come when I have gone?
What does it matter, really?
Its rocks and stones live on.
Oh mountain top, if you could talk,
The tales that you might tell,
Are you a vision of eternity?
A glimpse of heaven ... or of hell?
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis