Mount Zion

by Amy Hall

Sisyphus (1548–1549) by Titian, Museo del Prado, Madrid.

MOUNT ZION

I lift my eyes to the hills.

Whom do I see?

I see Sisyphus,

veins popping, sweat streaming,

rolling that stone up the thorn-cursèd hill—

every single day.

He grows older,

the stone heavier.

The setting sun, plotting against him,

tips the rock down the mount—

every single night.

Grave gravity in dewy grass

mocks the next day’s ascent.

I see Christ,

breath laboring, blood seeping,

trudging up Golgotha’s hill

to bear the wrath I should have known,

the thorns I should have worn.

The sun flees. Her Maker’s pain she cannot bear.

But all for love and grace, this pain.

Another rolling rock—

this one defeating death and hell.

O, glorious juxtaposition!

Mankind redeemed, the serpent crushed.

O, suffering Sisyphus, rejoice!

These days of stone grow brittle and short.

Remember, too, they hone your faith,

more valuable than gold.

And so, press on, belovèd pilgrim,

gaze full on Jesus’ face.

For one day soon, the Lion returns,

Mount Zion to reclaim.

Hallelujah—

Maranatha!

AMY HALL

Amy lives in Arkansas with her husband and three children. When she is not homeschooling or caring for their home, she attempts to write in the margins of life, just as Laura Ingalls Wilder did. She has been published in two Substacks: an article in Ted Balaker’s The Coddling of the American Mind Movie and a poem in Andrew Campbell’s English Teacher Weekly. Amy hopes to write a little more like Jane Austen someday. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a writer with a singular, serious focus must be in want of some wit. Truly, laughter is the best medicine!