O Lord,

You resurrect the world,
melt the snow sands,
draw to tender life
last year's small, hard secrets.

You stipple the timberland
with the faintest red-purple
brush touch and inspire
even frogs to song.

I'll cast my lot with You,
but not from spring-sweetness only.
You are winter-inscrutable and summer-kind,
victory's red wing stroke through dying fall--

Surest of Mysteries--
Baby in manger, Man snapped midlife,
never ending, never began,
Perfect Power with holes in Your hands.