The Promise

Spring comes late to this part of the northern hemisphere. But its coming is always heralded with joy. I can almost feel the excitement as I step out my front door and get a whiff of that fresh air that always during spring has a slightly different scent. Below the moss-covered stonewall on the edge of our field the creek chatters and bubbles, free at last from its frozen chains. The ancient apple trees lining our drive are darkened with rain, the lichen starkly green against the bark and the young shoots sprouting beside the trunks blush red as the sap rises. Along the back of my house the Narcissus is thrusting dark green spears through the molding layer of autumn leaves and my wild tiger lilies are peering from beneath their winter blanket. Everywhere green is growing again, from the green that comes to withered grass to tiny plants and fuzzy pussy-willows.

Never yet was a springtime, late though lingered the snow, That the sap stirred not at the whisper Of the south wind, sweet and low; Never yet was a springtime When the buds forgot to blow.

Ever the wings of the summer Are folded under the mold; Life that has known no dying, Is Love’s, to have and to hold, Till, sudden, the burgeoning Easter! The song! the green and the gold!

~Margaret E. Sangster

And just as there is the promise of spring, which year after year returns till the seasons end, so I also have the promise of the resurrection of my soul and the glory of life everlasting!



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