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The saints of God are mountains,
snowcapped and glorious.
They stand under heaven,
and tower to a crushing weight,
the weight of glory.
And yet, reaching toward heaven,
what does such height accomplish?
How far can it reach?
Against such a standard,
What is close?
What is far?
The valleys are lifted up,
The rough places plain,
The mountains made smooth,
And all creation
runs like molten glass.

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