Tomorrow
The year is grey and cold,
And we bid the winter go;
So all the dark and weary world,
Will be purged of blowing snow.
Tomorrow cry the branches,
From out of their sad heart;
My closed buds will open,
With green leaves all apart.
Tomorrow sings the robin,
To pipe her song again;
Her nest filled with eggs,
Warmed in spring's soft rain.
Tomorrow bleats the sheep,
My little lambs will run;
Playing in the meadow,
Beneath the golden sun.
We too wait for tomorrow,
That spring should come to be;
For Him to weave the threads,
Of life's dark destiny.
So all the hearts grown cold,
From life's cruel time and pain;
May bloom all fresh and green,
In Springtime's soft cool rain.
For all the hollow promises,
Of sad and empty years;
Are bringing back to tomorrow's
Joy with no more tears.
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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