The Wood Pile

Ah! The crunch of freshly fallen snow
Beneath my boots; crisp, virgin, pure.
Sweet and lovely, just like her.

Warm breath exhaled, given by Him;
transposed, condensed, made manifest.
A cloud! created, blessed.

The wood pile, cheerful, ready, able;
Cut, stacked, ordered, born.
Now intentionally gathered, to warm.

Pointed sticks, made fuel,
Press into these arms of flesh.
Gladly, I, am reminded, of sweet death;

A living sacrifice, made for love,
The heart melted, anew.
Life, at last, made true.

Now, be at peace, O my soul!
Weeping, in joy, I see –
Nothing is lost in Thee.

So, ponder, consider, please, O beloved!
This, every moment, Together –
Our Savior King, our Treasure.