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Isaac Watts

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Fly, like a youthful hart or roe,
Over the hills where spices grow.
Hymn 79, Hymns and Spiritual Songs, Book I.

Isaac Watts

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I don't really know if it's the right thing to do, making new life. Kids grow up, generations take their place. What does it all come to? More hills bulldozed and more ocean fronts filled in? Faster cars and more cats run over? Who needs it?

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Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
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Life was created in the valleys. It blew up onto the hills on the old terrors, the old lusts, the old despairs. That's why you must walk up the hills so you can ride down.

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How beautiful they are,
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