I call the hills my home,
as I walk this mound of earth;
for out it came man,
and later...came our birth.

The skies are but the ceiling,
from the beauty high above;
that change with every season,
and with the seasons...love.

Rain and snow, sometimes hail,
the weather never ceases;
only men and women age,
and with that come...the creases.

I'm a pilgrim and a sojourner,
walking on the plains;
content to live my life,
as my youth does wane.

I call the hills my home,
but not my destination;
I'm headed for a world,
of another... higher station.