The Golden Morning

“It was one of those cold and bitter mornings,
The sort which remind you that winter’s here.
The birds were singing their daily chorus,
The grass was the only green about me,
The trees were bare and seemed naked
But they seemed to feel no shame of it.
Their fingers reached towards the deep
Sea-blue sky and twilight stars.
The shadows of barns and oaks on the hills
Cast fear into the hearts of every watcher,
Or so I thought, though I really felt awe.
It was one of those mornings where
There seems to be power in the air,
Something just before a storm,
Or before the sun reveals itself.
I’ll never know how many had heard
Or seen the wonder of that winter day,
But to those very lucky few,
We witnessed the greatest thing on earth.
Upon the horizon there was a golden glow,
The trembling clouds folded out,
Their last fingers pulling away,
Their coats falling out behind them.
I heard the shrill of the morning air,
The wailing of the distant trains,
And there the last of the twilight fog
Cast itself up against the fields,
Shading the frosty grasses below.
White the rooftops with the dusting,
Grey the morning fields and spacing.
But what a blissful sight to behold,
Beautiful and glorious to all measure,
The greatest of all His whole glories,
The sunrise on a winter’s morning.” – Kester Rose


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