The way is set. The path is laid out. You have planned it.
Your might has moved earth to fashion this mountain path; your delicate love has settled dew on each blade of grass in this meadow.
And now, do I march, insensate? Do I run with joy, in abandon? Do I walk barefoot, feeling each pebble under tender footfalls?
Press me from behind, beckon me from around the turning, hold my hand and walk beside me. You are all those places already.
All happens under your skies, dear Lord. Let me laugh at my own plans, at how small I am, how tenderly I am treated. You have filled the land with masterworks.