This truth tells me, likewise, the meaning of these mountains to which “I have raised mine eyes” and “from where my help shall come” [Psalm 121:1]. These mountains are my fixed foundations, the everlasting hills of my hope. Let these mountains ever serve, too, as bulwarks to my soul. Let me look upon them always. May the eyes of my soul never stray from gazing toward these mountains, because upon them “the Guardian of Israel neither sleeps nor slumbers.”
Indeed, let me, even now, turn my thoughts to these godly mountains of my deliverance. Let me think of high Moriah, the mountain where the Lord provides. Let me climb with Abraham and wood-bearing Isaac to the altar of sacrifice. Let my help come to me, too, from mighty Sinai, in covenant and Law. Let me ascend with Moses and Elijah to stand before Your face. Likewise, Lord, make me ever mindful of the mountain where You dispel satanic thought with the keen sword of Deuteronomy. Oh, suffer not that handsome blade to sleep within my hand. Again, in blessed assurance, let my help come from the mountain where You proclaim blessed the poor in spirit. And kindly count me, Sir, among their number. Yet again, may my help come to me from the holy mountain where “such a voice came to Him from the Excellent Glory: ‘This is My beloved Son'” (2 Pet. 1:17). With Simon, make me contemplate the glorious cloud, and with the Sons of Thunder. Oh, most certainly, let my help be established on forlorn Golgotha, whose dark ninth plague foreshadows, for three hours, the earthquake and the slaughter of the Firstborn. With Your Mother, let me stand, and the close companions of her sorrow. Ah, but let my help, too, be found on that mountain from which the Eleven are sent forth to make disciples of all nations, for how beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who proclaim peace and bring good tidings. And now let my help come to me from mystic Nebo, where I may gaze, as the morning mist begins to clear, across the green, tree-lined Jordan to my wide inheritance. May I not perish, I pray, amidst the sons of Ammon, nor the children of Moab. And at the last, dear Lord, let me stand with John on that great and high mountain, to see the great city, Holy Jerusalem, descending down from heaven, her light like a most precious stone, like a jasper clear as crystal, and with streets of gold, like transparent glass. That city is the final Israel, whose Guardian “neither sleeps nor slumbers.” And until that day, Lord, teach me always to raise my eyes to these mountains, “from where my help shall come.”
— Patrick Henry Reardon, Christ in the Psalms, 242-243.