Here Where the Winter Dies
Here where the winter dies,
Our hearts are not forelorn,
Bright heaven looks through these grey skies
On us, this morn.
Always the seasons pass;
Bleak tyrants and their hosts
Shall end as loam beneath the grass.
Heed not their ghosts.
Ever shall those who sense
God’s breath in every place,
And all His works, behold from thence
His Holy Face.
For here where the winter dies,
And spring is veiled with snow,
The muted cast of day belies
Love’s ardent glow.
© Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All rights reserved.