On Morning Frost

He looked down from his mountain and then upwards to the sky; Thought he saw his life a’ passing in just one blink of an eye. Listened for the mourners, heard a solitary sigh; Just before the darkness comes he’ll bow his head to cry. The footprints he had followed now lie underneath the dust, And the chains that came to bind him show not a single speck of rust. The brothers who had led him had laughed at the words he cussed; There are still a few around him but not one he can trust. It was on the road to Babylon his life had hung by a thread; Was chasing the thieves and Pharisees whom always stayed one step ahead. All the thoughts he kept in private are now resting with the dead; The words about his future are wrapped up and left unsaid. He peers across the valley, sees light on the morning frost And crowds that come a’ gathering near the shadow of a cross. Watches children playing freely ‘round a boulder draped in moss; Then somewhere deep inside himself he sees all that has been lost. I wake up to my reflection on a broken windowpane; The battles are still raging, yet there’s nothing more to gain. The book of life’s flung open but I cannot find my name; I’ve been climbing up his mountain, looking for someone to blame. In an awkward, silent moment comes a whisper on the breeze; It’s telling of a salvation and the lost soul which it frees. Says it lifts the broken spirit and mends the heart that bleeds; Through all this I reach the top though I’m crawling on my knees. Now I look across the valley and I see light on the morning frost . . .