The Swelling Year

Pregnant with its own hopeful future,
Bursting with change and the newness of experience
Amidst each turn’s cycling familiarity,
The year stands:
A heaving monument to grace
Recognised at each twist and transition,
Offerings of comfort opening from
The baton-changes of seasons
Known all too well,
The greetings of those flowers
We met the last year, the soft rain of dead leaves
Drooping that we may mourn,
Dissolving in soil that new life
May burst forth – a symbol so full
Yet incomplete, just a glimmer
Of what wheat kernels and spring-buds
Can only guess at. Why we find each year
The same twists and turns, the same
Death and repeating birth cycles, we
Can but drop to our knees and ask.
Nevertheless –
In the familiar strains of a Father
Who comforts with the old and the new alike,
Who holds the future and the present
In the same firm grasp as the past,
He has taught us to keep watch,
To observe and to hope.
In this is His gift:
That the swelling expectancy of each
Pregnant year might grow too in us
And be our inward vigil as we,
With the leaf-buds and our fragile new souls,
Await our fullest and final Spring…

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