It was a hill.

Not a great mountain,

Where prophets walked.

It was a hill.

Twas' neither lush nor green;

Filled with fruits or gentle care.

Broken and jagged,

It's steep flanks sharp.

It was a hill.

So plain and torrid,

Was this little hill.

Our Lord walked,

Upon its rocky soil so steep.

Our Lord shed His blood,

Upon its slopes.

It was a hill.

Golgatha; the place of the skull,

A fitting name for a skull of rock.

His blood lies splattered,

Riven in rivers upon the rocky ground.

The journey He makes,

O'er your unforgiving slopes.

No rest for the Divine,

Upon your parched earth.

It was a hill.

Oh little hill,

Blest to have born the blood of Our Lord.

I trail up your unforgiving slopes,

My body worn with struggles.

Wayward and fearing,

I follow the blood run red.

His journey long complete,

Yet, still the path remains.

The blood I follow,

He has left it for me.

It was a hill.

Oh little hill,

How difficult it is to tread your path.

How often I have slipped,

Trapped beneath the weight of my cross.

Oh little hill,

Do not change the path so my burden will lighten.

Let me tread the path of my Savior,

Guided by His precious blood.

Let me follow His bloodied footsteps,

And let me weep for my sins.

Let me suffer the fate of my Redeemer,

Do not have pity on me, little hill.

It was a hill.

It was a hill our Lord ascended.

A hill of no special importance.

A hill that changed the world.

Oh holy hill of Calvary,

Let us climb thee now till our death.