When the wailing winds blow and
whip our weary, snow-battered homes;
When the frigid air clutches our throats
and with icy grip freezes our bones:
O God, come out.
Follow our footprints.
Trudge through the white stretches of crackling snows
Find us in the dim noonday sun, long
fallen to our knees;
Find us, O God,
who had merely wandered out to find you;
Throw your arms around us
and with warm words upon our trembling ears
whisper soft secrets of home, of home, of home.

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