Of the hill, and down to the valley below,
Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow—
Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow,
Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds,
Grinds—Grinds—Grinds—Grinds—
Across and across he turns and winds,
Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith,
No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith—
Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill,
And onward he plunges, for good or for ill,