Do the hills bring comfort?
Soon He will ascend His penultimate hill,
crown on brow, chest weighed down,
wrath upon His soul.
From where will come His aid?
He leaves the tabernacle, the comfort
of union, the certainty of feet
which cannot stumble.
I lift up mine eyes…
The glorious handiwork of hands soon scarred
stretch into horizon, the resting stool
of feet bent upon a cross…
The Consolations of Writing 
Glorious piece!
Thankyou!