It was a bad winter
The wind, bitterly cold.
Icy fingers of hopelessness,
Ever reaching for the soul.
Against the windows,
High and white, the snow
Hardly allowing any light,
As day is swallowed up by night.
Oh, but there inside the house,
Upon the hearth, a lovely sight.
For there sat He, in quiet repose,
The One who keeps the flame aglow.
Forgiving eyes and nail scarred hands,
A face ravaged by pain and sacrifice,
He feeds the flame
Of the soul's desire
And though the cold with cruel breath,
Sought the flame to extinquish, yet,
It could not, for this is no ordinary house,
You see, no natural scene nor element.
For the One who keeps the flame aglow,
And melts the ice of hopelessness,
Is Jesus. And the house?
It is my soul.
copyright 2001 by Patsy Lewis