After the mountain...
The walk home begins.

The steel meets wood before the dawn.
The same old rhythm carries on.
No witness marks another day.
The bucket finds the waiting well.
The rope knows every groove too well.
The work repeats with steady hands.
I slowly understand.

Today asks something small of me.
I answer faithfully.
Tomorrow quietly returns.
And finds me where I need to be.
No ordinary day is small...
When nothing is beneath me.

I meet the morning where it stays.
I stop rehearsing better days.
No trumpet teaches me to rise.
The blade still waits to meet the wood.
The well gives water as it should.
I give the hour my empty hands.
And quietly... I stand.

Today asks something small of me.
I answer faithfully.
Tomorrow quietly returns.
And finds me where I need to be.
No ordinary day is small...
When nothing is beneath me.

The road repeats beneath my feet.
The rhythm makes the labor sweet.
The smallest things become enough.

I sharpen what has grown too dull.
I carry what is never full.
No day arrives already great.
It grows because I wait.

Before the mountain...
Chop wood. Carry water.

After the mountain...
Chop wood. Carry water.

Before the harvest...
Open hands.

After the harvest...
Open hands.

Nothing changes...
Except the One
that chops the wood...
and carries the water.

Today asks something small of me.
I answer faithfully.
Tomorrow quietly returns.
And finds me where I need to be.
No ordinary day is small...
When nothing is beneath me.

No ordinary day is small.
No ordinary day is small.
No ordinary day is small.

After the mountain...
The walk home begins.