The Cradle of Thy Ember

Yet another bleak bewitching winter claws across our windowsill; we quickly shut the icing panes to exorcise his curs'd chill. We were well aware his breath could render life itself to frigid ash, but we were also well assured our charcoal child, with him, would clash: He arises from our homely ember infantile at first, his light; though as the evening sun subsides, he rears his flames to quell the night. And again the winter must surrender to his incandescent palms, the warmth of his enkindled tongues and fervor from his flick'ring psalms. O messiah, suckle in the timber and the quivers we bequeath; we mass about thy cradled fire-- baptize us with thy bless'd heat!