He could have come in springtime
when flowers force their way
through sod and
bleating hope is born.
He could have been spring's lamb.

He could have come in summer
when sun streams down
to warm that hope and
breezes cool the doubts.
Summer's brightest son.

He could have come in autumn
when hope flames forth
with blazing joy and
crimson paints the earth.
Behold, He's autumns glory.

But He comes in winter
When hope lies frozen
in the night and
blizzards rake our souls.
He comes, our living hope.