Winter thrums onward, making white the throne
where the children sit and sing the song
that rings strong and low.
Each note as a sword
swinging on from deathly hope
to cut out from the old mens’ hearts
the flesh that taints the flow
of darkness, waiting heavy
causing the earth to groan.
And so the song, so
is swung out from living tongues
to ring strong and low.
To pull back the iron shade
that keeps our captive souls
and plat a tree to grow from seed
up, to reach the throne
where angels cry the glory song
and sing out strong and low.
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