FLOWERS die not in the winter-tide,
Although they wake in spring;
Pillowed ’neath mounds of fleecy snow,
While skies are gray and storm-winds blow,
All patiently they bide,
Fettered by frost, and bravely wait,
And trust in spring or soon or late.
Hope dies not in the winter-tide,
Though sore it longs for spring;
Cool morn may ripen to hot noon,
And evening dusks creep all too soon
The noonday sun to hide;
But through the night there stir and thrill
The sleeping strengths of life and will.
For souls there comes a winter-tide,
For souls there blooms a spring;
Though winter days may linger long,
And snows be deep and frosts be strong,
And faith be sorely tried,
When Christ shall shine, who is the Sun,
Spring-time shall be for every one.
Oh, mighty Lord of winter-tide!
Oh, loving Lord of spring!
Come to our hearts this Easter Day,
Melt all the prisoning ice away,
And evermore abide,
Making both good and ill to be
Thy blessed opportunity.