In winter, as the freezing fog
floats friendless ‘cross the frozen field.
I watch the lost and lonely jog
and to my dread depression yield.
The shrouded, silent, silver sun
stands still, or so it seems to me.
And only mortals dare to run
away from God’s eternity.
By noon, when dreary darkness falls,
I hear a soulful singing bird.
From tree to tree the creature calls.
He hopes, by one, he will be heard.
At dusk, when all our dreams expire
and empty, aching hearts grow cold.
Those thoughts, once fed with Jesus\' fire,
turn grey, from summer’s gleaming gold.