The cold wind sings its whistling tune,
the laden branches stretch and lean.
The slush, now grey, will sometime soon
renew with snowfall’s whit’ning gleam.
The sun, for days, has lain repressed
with clouds that hide her shining face.
But e’en the clouds cannot arrest
the cosmic rays of glory’s grace.
The grass is trampled underfoot–
brown mud, like dung, to my boots cling.
Exposed, I know the sodden root
will grow bright green in coming spring.
For all creation sings His praise:
the rocks cry out, the creatures yearn,
in turning seasons, night and day–
that men His resurrection learn.
The wicked world has sown a rift.
No sight of hope, how can it be?
the God-man’s death, our greatest gift:
re-unifying mystery.
Stephen Price
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