‘Mid winter’s snowy shroud,
My mind drifts to her tomb.
It plagues me with piercing aches—
Remembering her sweaty brow
Nestling long against my breast,
Now buried under blanketed earth,
Cold as the encompassing crust.
I long to warm her once again;
To cradle what is now a shell—
Once full of life, now at rest.
Were it not for Divine words,
Whispering her whereabouts,
I would remain in that despair;
The pain would have the last word.
But as Truth takes root under the pain,
The heavenlies serenade, “She is here;
The shell is but a shadow, abandoned
For a far superior and splendid spirit—
Full of life, full of light,
In the presence of the Almighty;
And so shall she ever be with the Lord.”
And beholding that beauty
Of the resurrected Christ—
And she, drinking from the River of Life
At His nail-pierced feet—
My heavy heart pulses heavenward;
Blessed Hope shatters the ice;
Winter’s harsh sting, and death’s,
Lay defeated by grace alone, once again.