Bow at His feet.
You did not come here by yourself:
your knees are weak and buckle under pride,
and joints stiffen when left to self.
The road is narrow.
You must bend and bow to walk its curves;
it will not bend itself for you
and, puffed with knowledge, you will only make it burst.
Consider Him who bore
such shame, who fell such distance,
plumbed such trenches with His perfect grace,
and all the while knew joy.
Not greater than your master,
the mountain-side is no more yours than His.
If He descends, then so must you;
low, be lower still.
The Consolations of Writing 