Treading gently through the woods,
They took their steps and made no noise.
Only the silent steps in the snow,
(For life had grown that cold)
Never really wanting to let go,
Holding so tight to whatever they could.
Even as their hands froze solid,
And they could no longer feel their toes.
But calmly, they treaded through.
Each step harder than before,
Until every muscle was emensly sore.
But looking on you wouldn’t tell.
You’d think each step was just the same.
For they carried on without much haste.
Time, effort, they had none to waste.
But slowly, their individiuality, was lost.
Their honesty, their love…
Froze over into pain, sorrow too.
Still they treaded on in the cold,
Determined to lose everything.
Anything that seperated them from life.
Their souls, bodies, hearts grow old,
But they tread on like the day they started.
If only, if only, in the right direction.
If only by hard, I had meant thier motions.
But in all honesty, it was their hearts.
Their hearts grew harder with each step.
One step, another, their boots hit the snow.
Finally, as if a rock had been over looked,
One tripped as he stepped, fell to his knees.
Some urged him to stand and keep on treading,
Others ignored him and said it best he die there.
But he looked at his hands, numb and frozen,
Then he looked to his heart, the same as his hands…
What had happened to the warmth that once was?
The love that spread and warmed these woods.
He stood to his feet as others moved on.
Step by step, they left him behind.
Slowly as if he were afraid to be seen,
He turned back the way he’d come, so long.
And step by step, he went back to the start.
Treading on, others scolded his efforts.
“Turn back you fool, come with us!”
But he looked in their eyes, thier souls.
He knew for once, he was meant for warmth.
With his frozen legs he headed still,
The direction he’d started so long ago.
He looked through the trees to see the sun.
The warmth it gave sped through his body.
Warming his hands, his mind, his soul…
And suddenly… he cried.
For too long had he been longing,
Treading the snow to find something,
Something worth hanging onto.
When all along…
Something woth hanging onto,
Was at the start of his existance.
Right infront of him to find.
But hidden, as the sun, the Son.
In the snow, the cold of our hearts.
With the fall man could not see,
The one that knocked his line of sight.
At let him wonder,
Why am I really here?
So step by step they tread through the snow,
Undetermined to fall as we do.
But slowly and few,
We fall to our knees,
We look to the Son,
And follow the breeze,
The breeze so often unsensed.
Warming our hearts, tender and pure.