Winter 1992

It is winter, when all appears dead
We of warm blood must not stop moving for long
So...my river is frozen.
And, am I walking it and do not realize it?  Will I slip and fall?
Or, are my runners sharp, and my horse, sure-footed?
Honestly, I am wary of the ice and hate slipping.  I avoid it.
If the horse is sure, and the runners are smooth,
I will venture out on thick ice.
Were they not pledged after all?

You comfort me with this great beauty,
Winter's work and the art of your hand.
I hate her treacherous cold, but I trust your hand.

Even in dead Winter
Amid her impartially treacherous cold and ice
There is still the work, that always must go on
From before my birth, it was piled and after I'm laid down
Won't another have to pick it up?
There is one work that devours and another which bears a witness.

Yet, there is work which gives me room.  It is peaceful here.
I can breathe.  It is quiet.  We are alone.

There is danger; always the danger of falling.
What more can I do?  The horse is sure.  The runners are smooth
And the ice is thick.  It is a calculated risk.  I will trust.

She is very beautiful, and she will succumb to the warming of Spring.
We glide on, and there is beauty to comfort me for the freezing cold
A white horse sure upon his feet
And while the rest is frozen
We keep moving through the cold toward home.

The land I call my own is just beyond
Just beyond my vision.  Just beyond my horizon.  See?
I cannot describe it.  That is the best picture I can draw for you.
My wordless hymn, my silent song, the heart I cannot describe.
Everything else is just a pale reflection, a fitful mirage on the road.

Mute I hold up this heart to you
If it be wood or straw or stubble or gold or precious I cannot tell
But it beats, it aches, and you alone have the words!

Put the fire to it, my love, put the fire to it
Part me from the freezing cold and the treacherous ice
Even from the comfort of beauty, the pledge of horse and sled
Be Thou the answer to the prayer thyself
No more comfort my tears
But joy!  Joy when you requite my heart!
It is private then, between thee and me
For you, my King, you alone have the words.