I walk a knife’s edge. You have made my feet like those of the deer, yet fear grips me easily. So far down is the valley on either side.
And then I turn and see the line of fellows behind. Brothers and sisters watching to see which footfalls to take. There is, then, no turning back nor room to pass.
Is your will that I fear, Lord? That I feel resignation? That I walk on, nonetheless?
The wind blows up from the valley, let it quicken me, Lord.