January goes out, grim and gaunt and grey,
A worn and weary hunter chasing after weary prey.
She brought the blues, she bared the land, she broke the battered cry –
“I’ll do better than I’ve done, I swear I’ll try.”
See how it weighs on the shoulders of the brave –
This broken trail of promises that makes each a slave.
Yet there is freedom to be found. Freedom from all
The musts and shoulds and oughts that stand
Like ghosts, in an empty hall.
A faithful Hand, a patient Voice
To soothe and gently guide each choice –
They whisper in the desert-land
“Be still, I Am.”
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