"And Jesus walked in the temple in Solomon's porch,"
And it was winter.
Was it the calendar's winter or the heart's?
Was it just that summer's warmth had been withdrawn,
That the golden blessing of the sun had ceased to shine
Upon them?
Was it just that the sedge had withered from the lake
And no birds sang?
The Jews had asked him: If thou be the Christ,
Tell us plainly.
Had he not told them with the tongue of healing,
The tongue of Truth?
Had he not put a sweet and heavenly note
Into life's music?
Was not his light a light above the sun?
The selfsame chill enshrouds the world today—
The heart's own winter.
Ingratitude, self-seeking, unbelief,
Benumb us, and we ask, as did the Jews,
If we can but be shown the Christ more plainly.
Our question's only answer is divine:
The warm Christ-love is all about us now,
The promised rest more sweet than a crooned song
When night is falling.
Just as the sun keeps reaching for the earth,
So Christ's dear love keeps reaching for our hearts
To light and warm their self-appointed winter.
