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!
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