When the rivers run with ice, I feel it in my bones. It feels like grief. Like a gasping for breath.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
Some days the rivers run with ice and my breath shocks me with its presence, bright against the empty air. When that Cheshire moon leers across the slick dark road, I grip the wheel tightly and hum of happy golden days of yore. Some days I don’t believe in those days, though.
Some days I don’t believe the jingles or the carols. Some days I am blind to the wonders of his love. The quiet of winter lets us hear our doubts. It attunes us to sadness, unease, injustice.
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother And in His name all oppression shall cease
When the winters run with ice, I exhale slowly in the cold and pray Immanuel, Immanuel, God be with us now.
In the hush of fog beneath white-crested poplars, I wait. I don’t fall to my knees. I don’t hear angel voices. But I watch for tidings of melting and gladness. I listen for the cry of a distant, nearby child. I whisper, soft and sacred, God be with us still.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we, Let all within us praise His holy name