Whose child I am I think I know,
yet oft I long for Him to show
His face upon this wasteland, cheer
my dearth: and then He sends the snow
To cool my tongue. I bend my ear
to hear Him who holds this trembling sphere.
He whispers in each downy flake:
His still, small voice, it draws me near.
Just as my children gently make
a man of snow, so He doth take
my life. He means my soul to keep,
for on this one He’s set His stake.
So though the miles be dark and deep,
though sin and sorrow o’er me sweep,
my Lord His promises will keep,
‘til in His arms I fall asleep.