The Rescuer's Footfalls

On the path to journey's end,
The thoroughfare became a thicket--
Hopelessly tangled, helplessly trapped.

The silver sunshine escapes,
her warmth retreats from my touch,
and cold crawls in.

Gently gyrating, floating flakes
turned to a plummeting pumice,
harshly scrubbing life away.

Shelter sought but not found--
Searching, seeking. Unresolved,
except the broken branches of hope denied.

Huddled in the hovel of desperate desolation,
Winter's frigid fingers grasped
our frostbitten souls without solace.

Hope's flow ebbing, now frozen fast.
Doomed to die in cold despair
for no rescuer's footfalls are coming.

Listen! A child, the baby of Bethlehem
leaves the warm womb of heaven
for winter's wasteland where we lived in death.

Christmas, in the hard heart of winter,
is the soft sound of hope rising,
of the Rescuer's footfalls lighting.