In Christ Alone

In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone, who took on flesh
Fullness of God in helpless babe
This gift of love and righteousness
Scorned by the ones He came to save
‘Til on that cross as Jesus died
The wrath of God was satisfied
For every sin on Him was laid
Here in the death of Christ I live

There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain
Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again
And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ

No guilt in life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand
‘til He returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand.


Stuart Townend & Keith Getty

Isaiah 53

I hadn't been moved to tears in worship for a long time. God is so good.

Who believes what we've heard and seen?
Who would have thought God's saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God - a scrawny seedling,
a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
We looked down on him, thought he was scum.
But the fact is, it was our pains he carried -
our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
that ripped and tore and crushed him - our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
Through his bruises we get healed.
We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost.
We've all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong,
on him, on him.
He was beaten, he was tortured,
but he didn't say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
and like a sheep being sheared,
he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off -
and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
beaten bloody for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he'd never hurt a soul
or said one word that wasn't true.
Still, it's what God had in mind all along,
to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
so that he'd see life come from it - life, life, and more life.
And God's plan will deeply prosper through him.
Out of that terrible travail of soul,
he'll see that it's worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
will make many "righteous ones"
as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I'll reward him extravagantly -
the best of everything, the highest honors -
Because he looked death in the face and didn't flinch,
because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
he took up the cause of all the black sheep.

Is Patience Still Waiting? Part II

... After us passengers had been herded like sheep to be told our flight was canceled, we went through the arrival gates to collect our traumatised luggage. Having told our suitcases they'd get to travel, you will understand that we needed to take time to gently reveal the sad truth to them - what a way to burst a suitcase's bubble! Back at the front of the aiport (if we can even call a building of that size an airport), my phone buzzed and "home" was waiting for me to answer. After explaining what had happened, I was instructed to go complain and claim a refund of some sort. Knowing my love for confrontation, I was absolutely thrilled at the idea of quarrelling with people who didn't have anything to do with the flight's cancellation. I gathered all the strength and courage I had, subtly lay hand on my cautiously concealed double-edged sword (ready to strike in case of eventual discord), assuredly stood at the door of the Customer Services ... and vaguely protested - ah, how I wish the earth would just open up and swallow me whole in those situations. I didnt get a refund for anything, not even for the 20 pounds I had to pay for the excessive amount of scones and pop tarts I had bought to bring back to my family. All that quiet complaining to no avail, not to mention the wasted hours spent rigorously planning my spectacular sword fight.

A small queue had started to form behind me, people were obviously following my great example, only hoping to be more sucessful than me and knowing how to, most probably. As I turned away from the Customer Services, defeated, I heard someone ask me whether I was going to take a taxi back to Canterbury - in French. Startled, I hastily tried to decipher how this individual had figured out I spoke French. I realised the tag on my suitcase (which had, by then, recovered from the trauma) indicated that I lived in Switzerland - this was the crucial clue that had led to the disclosure of my identity. Beware of suitcase tags. I thought, "well well, in this foreign land I am stranded in, why not speak French, I'll be half way closer to home this way, perhaps" and seized the opportunity to converse with this young French teacher, who had also hoped on going back home for the Christmas holidays. In his typically French cynicism (forgive the slight stereotype), he commented on the flight's cancellation, which was rather amusing. My friend Caroline, who came to the rescue, drove both of us back to the quaint town of Canterbury and on the next morning, I saw my new friend as we drove back to our beloved Manston-ian haven, in the early hours of the morning.

We were welcomed back into the airport by a woman dressed in a bright yellow glow-in-the-dark-type outfit, who cheerfuly informed us that the flight to Geneva we were to take had already been delayed. We drowned our sorrows in watered-down coffee and tried to appease our restlessness with muffins. When the single check-in desk finally opened, we kissed our suitcases goodbye and promised not to deceive them again. After discussing many topics such as politics (an invigorating issue to be thinking about at the crack of dawn, may I point out) we finally left the lounge behind, walked out into the fresh air and were led to the stairs to board the aircraft, ticket in hand. The promise of home knocking louder; an approximate hour away.

The sun rising as we flew out was beautiful, and the view over the Alps was breath-taking. Worth all the delays and complications. To my surprise, he was as excited as I was about the fact that the sight of the mountains, majestically standing at arm's length, was so dazzling. He took out his digital camera and saw the world through his lense until we flew through the clouds and into the city. To pay tribute to his awe, I thought it fair to post one of his pictures.

Life is full of strange occurences, which happen for unknown reasons. But out of all this, I now know Manston airport inside out, I spent hours waiting for a plane humored, instead of bored, I've got pretty pictures of the Alps, I can talk to you about politics at the crack of dawn, I beat my record at being social in the morning, I bonded with my suitcase, I got practice at confrontation, I learned that suitcase tags can give you away ... and then some.

Rude Awakening

As I walk in from the cold
Your embrace melts away the snow,
From white flakes to clear pearls of water
Reflecting the world above, ovally warped,
You see the beauty in it all,
I wish I could see through the glass of your eyes.
You say you'll take me there one day
Plunge me into that perspective
Where the grass always looks green
No matter what the season.
I would love to waste more time with you
Turn my back on what awaits me
Once I depart the comfort of your arms,
Far from the claustrophobic clutter of my life
Where everything resonates with hollow emptiness
And where silence is painfully deafening.

If I could skip this chapter,
I wouldn't hesitate to turn the page
But reason and "common sense"
Have tied my wings down, and I can't shut my eyes
On the constellation of my frustration.
I can also find You here
And I'll search harder if that's what it takes
Through the blur of what I once thought I understood.

I manufacture contentment
While I can't seem to unravel any loose explanation
For what gave birth to my fall,
Like Icarus I collide,
What put an end to my season by the Son?
The sunshine leaks in through my window
And wraps itself around me,
Bringing solace in the storm.
As I search the horizon for a higher calling
I see the planes ornate the sky with pink streaks,
And as they soar at heights where beauty surrounds
They leave me wishing my destination was so well defined.
Take these broken and aching pieces of my soul, Lord,
Let me be still in Your rushing waters,
Soften my edges, cracked and dry,
Flood this jar of clay with Your living waters,
Beckon Your homesick child ashore.

Let me find rest in You; in the hands of The Potter.

Musical Rambles

Though my brother's ear is determinedly tuned to the baseball stadium's cheer, upon hearing my most recent songs played to him he said to me, "Jeanne, do something!" Encouragement having come from an honest and unexpected source, I decided to put an end to my lethargy in regard to my songwriting, and took heed of his advice. I sacrificed sleep and 'being social' time, but at three o'clock, on the morning of the day I was to fly back to England, I concluded my mission. With a growing distaste for microphones, bags under my eyes and calloused fingers, I was ready to reap the fruit of my labour: I held my four track demo in my hands. I entitled it "Imperfect and raw, but myself".

The first song is called "Fine By Me" and is the penult...penultimate... (I never know how to say this word, and only found out about its existence this year - shockifying, I know! I used to simply slip it into the conversation in French, ah the curse of Frenglish) song I've written. It's about someone I met who, said cliché-like, stood out and awoke my curiosity, someone I hoped to befriend.

The second is actually a cheat: I recorded this one last Easter, but we can pretend I laboured over it during the holidays too. It's called "The Luxury Of Time" and evokes, mainly, the frustration of a situation being interrupted by my coming and going from and to home.

The third is a semi-spontaneous song, "Twilight". Over my last week at home I unceasingly played a picking pattern to which I then put the words that flowed from my pen, after coming home from my last day out snowboarding. The lyrics are up, on a few posts previous to this one.

The last song is "Here", which I wrote over the summer, when trapped in my lawyer's office with nothing to do, but having to pretend to. It was a particularly spiritually dry summer, in contrast to the heavy rain we were 'blessed' with - the grass and trees liked it, I'm sure.

The two most recent ones need a lot of refining, but that will come with time. The next step is to now pluck up the courage to ask someone who goes to my church if he's willing and has the time to properly record my songs, on the basis of my "demo cd". I sent my sister a copy all the way to Thailand, and she got it today - she said I sounded like one of our favourite bands. My next aim in life will be to write songs à la Paul Simon... Before that, though, I need to act upon these words while these elements are still fresh in the air, as I know my tendency to withdraw only too well; giving in to that not so pleasant contradicting voice in my head.

All of this interesting and lovely information to build up a climax to the fact that today, a friend indeterminately lent me her four-track. It's what I use to record my songs back home, but I now have a similar recording device here! How exciting! That means I get to record all that I want without having to wait to be back home to do it! I happen to be cello-friendless in Geneva, but here I'll even have the chance to add a zest of cello into my songs.

Right, I must stop getting distracted and return to my essay writing on "the pure relationship", which defines itself as "a situation where a social relation is entered into for its own sake, for what can be derived by each person from a sustained association with another, and which is continued only in so far as it is thought by both parties to deliver enough satisfactions for each individual to stay within it." Why it is called the pure relationship still leaves me perplexed, and the fact that it is predominant in our western societies is somewhat worrying, but I now must flee to tackle these issues.

Cheerio!

Don't Stop Playing...

"There is a great story making the rounds about a well-known pianist, Ignace Jan Paderewski. His concert in New York had been sold out for six months. On the night of the concert those who came were dressed in tuxedos and fancy dresses. A mother brought her nine-year-old son because he was begining to complain about his piano lessons, and she thought hearing a great pianist might motivate him to keep practicing. You can dress a nine-year-old in a tuxedo, but he's still nine. Restless and impatient, he continually had to go to the bathroom and, much to the irritation of those sitting by them, kept walking back and forth. Finally the mother became exasperated, grabbed her son by the shoulders, and sat him down hard on his seat. 'Now stay there and don't move!' she said sternly. But a few minutes later, while the mother was distracted by the person on the other side of her, the boy slipped out to the aisle. The mother turned to see her son walking towards the stage, where a huge Steinway piano was standing. Panicky, she yelled at him to come back. Startled, the little boy panicked, ran toward the stage, ran up the stairs straight to the piano, sat down, and began to play 'Chopsticks'. People in the audience were furious.

'Get that kid off the stage!'
'This is an outrage!'
'What is this boy doing here!'

As the startled ushers began moving toward the young boy, Paderewski heard the commotion and looked out of his dressing room. He saw the boy playing 'Chopsticks'. He quickly grabbed his tuxedo jacket, walked to the edge of the backstage area, and then stepped into full view of the audience. There was a collective hush. Everyone wondered what the great pianist would do. The boy, oblivious to what was happening, continued to play. Paderewski came up behind him, went down on his knees, and whispered in the little boy's ear, 'Don't stop. Keep on playing. You're doing great.' While the boy continued to play, the great pianist put his arms around the boy and began playing a concerto based on the tune of 'Chopsticks'. While the two played, Paderewski kept saying 'Don't stop. Keep on playing.'


As you look at your life, as you contemplate embracing the faith of a little child, as you wonder what difference your bumbling, flawed life will make, I hope you hear God's whispering voice, 'Don't stop. Keep on playing. You're doing great.'

One day we shall all be gathered in that great concert hall of God, and we will hear the glorious beauty of the concerto God was playing while you and I plunked out our childlike version of 'Chopsticks'."

Mike Yaconelli

ps: Claire - thank you so much for letting me use your pictures! You rock my socks off :)

Echoes Of The Heart

I love days when you unexpectedly bump into your friends, get a quick chance to catch up, pick things up from where you left them, exchange smiles and laughs, reminisce, make plans to meet again which hold the promise of engraving many more great memories in your heart ... and when an unrestrainable smile just cannot help but splash itself across your face, inextinguishably arising from each unrehearsed encounter.

Today was one of those days.

Alternative Sunday

Last night, when I was snug as a slug under my covers, I decided with God that if it was a nice day on Sunday, I'd go out into the wild Wincheap fields instead of going to church. You see, I sleep with my Bible - boy am I holy - but lately it's just been resting there next to me, hibernating. So I radically thought, "right, tomorrow things are going to change". I woke up at the same time as I would for church and saw a bright orange light behind my curtains. I jumped out of bed, pulled the curtains and smiled with relief - my curtains weren't in flames - it was the beautiful sunshine trying to get into my room, beckoning me to get out there, somewhere, where the vegetation was lush and inviting. After drinking a freshly made orange juice and eating a cereal bar imported all the way from Geneva, I was ready to embark on my adventure.

My feet took me not too far away from my house, to hilly fields covered with cow poo, but it was all very charming in its own little way. In the middle of one of the fields mini cliffs appeared - it was almost like having a miniature set of the white cliffs of Dover in my backyard. It was an unusual site, but I sat at the edge of the cliffs and the sun shone with all its might right where I was sitting. I took out my sunbathing towel, lay on it and... well no, the story doesn't actually go like that. I took out a bright pink Superdrug bag, sat on it and started reading 1 Corinthians. Half way through, I was overcome with a desperate need to use the toilet. My pretty and subtle pink bag wasn't protecting me from the cold earth's chill either, which didn't help decrease the need. I carefully examined my surroundings and speculated the possibility of releasing my bladder fluids somewhere hidden from the eventual public eye. Like a child on a scavenger hunt determined to find the treasure, I searched the place until I finally found the ultimate perfect pee spot!

Come on, don't pretend like you've never done it... It was a tame response to the legacy the cows had left me, really.

I regained my seat on my plastic bag, suprisingly no cows had started chewing on my belongings, and I resumed my reading. I focused my attention mainly on Paul's analogy of the body of the Church, every part of it being vital and unique. I also looked at spiritual gifts and the key role of love. Reading it in the Message was really refreshing and what I read caught my attention as if reading it for the very first time. It was excellent! I found this particularly inspiring, hope you can feast upon it too :)

Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled. When I was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good. We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us! But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love. Go after a life of love as if your life depended on it - because it does.
1 Corinthians 13: 8-13, 14:1a

I think I should do what I did this morning more often than I do - take my Bible on a trip to cliffy fields that is (with an empty bladder, I'll know for next time). Not instead of church, but I definitely left my cow-pooped field overflowing with something I didn't have when I made my way there. I haven't put words to it yet, but I stood up after my morning out sitting in God's glorious sunshine, and felt replenished by God's nourishing Word and presence. I'd like to go out there once a week, but it must remain a secret, as I fear that officially calling it a weekly commitment might kill the excitement that motivates it...

Hidden In Plane View

It's always crazy to be surrounded by such beauty and complete grandeur when flying by the Alps. It's a site that beams with resplendence and that stretches way beyond what my eyes could ever contain. And yet, to realise that God profoundly knows every single person living down there is absolutely astonishing. I can hardly comprehend it! I love flying: it never fails to burst the box I've figured God into. Piercing through the veil of doubt and misconception, it's funny how it often helps to soar at such heights to recapture that good ol' "bigger picture" anew.

Clap your hands, all you nations; shout to God with cries of joy. How awesome is the Lord Most High, the great King over all the earth! Sing praises to God, sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises. For God is the King of all the earth; sing to Him a psalm of praise.

Psalm 47:1-2, 6-7

Impromptu

Ode To My Beloved Sister

I love you most when

You have a "quick question" for me,

You laugh like a baignoire qui se vide,

You take the 13:06 train back home,

You calmly translate poems

With your voice so cristaline et rapide.

When your testa hurts,

And when you try to lose me

In the streets of Canterbury,

O, how I love thee.

I cherish your Viennese coupe
Like a mussel playing the violin

In the vent des prophètes.

My heart grows fonder

When your glasses sit crooked on your nose,

And when you look like

A rescapée de Moscou.

These things are always verrrrry nice.

There's no one else

I'd rather eat Mexican salads with,

In downtown Minneapolis.

No one else I'd rather share Pannetone with.

If you were here, we could watch The Hours,

With Nana Mouskouli singing in the background

And eat unsalted tomates à longueur de journée - yahoo.

I miss your gipsy music,

And your Knacki-smelling hands,

Your peuple migrateur,

Your pretty boucles brunes,

Your graines de beauté,

Your histoi de Babah

And your libellule eyes.

O, when will you return to me?

So we can go se faire mal au crane,

A dos d'âne!

Marie Magdalena has polished her icons

For your return,

MJ has left by minibus

To migrate with the Allouettes,

And I've prepared an A.S.

Rihoooooo...ta, bella cigogna,

Comè si pianta la bella polenta?

I impatiently await the time when

We will go for warm chicken bbq's

With kir in our hands,

And hoses spraying the unreached areas

Of the rotannnnde.

In the meantime, thank you

For understanding me inside out,

And making me laugh like a headless chicken,

For your honesty;

You are one of the most beautiful people

Having tread the path of my life.

I miss playing the guitar and harmonizing with you,

Riding that powder and falling off the lifts

Because of contagious hilarity.

I miss sharing thoughts with you

While sipping on our caramel macchiatos.

I love you Thais :)

And to answer your question, no, you never embarass me; even when you openly proclaim your love for my armpits ;)

Do you think she has a .............................................. wig?

An Accidental Theft, An Enlightening One Nonetheless

In the hope of fooling the masses into thinking that I'm an organised student, I finally decided it was time to classify my notes into a folder. Mind you, I was also overcome with compassion, and quite rightly so, may I add: those poor things had been neglected for long enough, gathering dust in a corner of my desk. In the midst of this grand entrepreneurial task of mine, I was faced with a rather shocking truth: there in the middle of my not so structured notes lay an alien printout of B. Weiner's "Attribution Theory". I tried to come up with rational explanations as to how it could have ended up in my belongings. Maybe I had just unraveled a dangerous conspiracy that had been brewing in my room for three whole months, between psychology and anthropology theorists... Perhaps they had even been planning to overthrow the world - goodness me, I had just saved the world. Truth is, after running out of perspicacious explanations, it all boiled down to one harsh truth. On one occasion, I must have rushed to collect what I had just printed out, and oblivious to that particular Weiner printout already sitting on the tray waiting to be collected by its owner, I grabbed hold of all the papers there, and walked away with more than I had bargained for. Because we humans are plagued with pervasive guilt, I must dispel any ill thoughts lurking in your mind and assure you that my theft was very much a mistake and an accident I deeply regret. Please accept my apologies, wrath-free, if possible, it would be most appreciated. Thank you.

Naturally, everything happens for a reason, and great things emanate from such undecent events. Let me tell you that I have greatly learned from this experience: according to the attribution theory, high achievers will approach rather than avoid tasks related to succeeding because they believe sucess is due to high ability and effort which they are confident of! Let me also point out that going through three months worth of note-taking paper sensitised me to the bravery of those poor trees who traded a happy life in the forest for a hampered existence in a folder. I've already planned to sue tree-butchers due to my minor snowboarding accident (I nevertheless did have to fast from snowboarding for two whole days!), and I firmly believe that all this paper waste will be another valid argument to build up my case. I'll keep you posted as to when I start my Save The Trees campaign, rest assured.

I suggest you "accidently" pick up printed articles from printer trays to heighten and embellish your knowledge scope, as I clearly have mine. Be sure to put them back where you found them once you're done though; three months down the line is slightly late for one to repair a crime of such nature.

A Prayer

God I'm dying to find the quiet in the dark,
Like a blind man down the hall finds his way through hearing and touch.
Now I've got more secrets than my mouth can hold,
I'm naked so often I can't feel the cold.
Who'll be that brave to fight me
And love me just the same, love me just the same?
It's about time that we redefined
The words that have lost the meaning of what we meant.

In the name of love,
In the name of Your sweet creation,
One day I'll understand, when the rags I wear fall away
With Your hands reaching out, and Your tears still wet running down them.
Touch my lips with a coal, and drown me in Your deepest fountain.

Is there still time, for all my bridges to be rebuilt?
My over-extended arms to mystically be filled?
And I am so tired of running these distances
To find I haven't moved a mile,
I'm a woman who is longing to trust like a child again,
Trust like a child again.
It's about time that we redefined
The words that have lost the meaning of what we meant.

In the name of love,
In the name of Your sweet creation,
One day I'll understand, when the rags I wear fall away
With Your hands reaching out, and Your tears still wet running down them.
Touch my lips with a coal, and drown me in Your deepest fountain.


Miranda Stone

Scandalous Grace

I tend to chronically fail at sticking to New Year's resolutions. Comes March, I've already slipped back into my old ways; June's in full bloom and I've changed my resolutions at least ten times. In that respect, my life seems to be stuck on the same track - a recurrent confrontation with the painful truth of my own inadequacy and insufficiency. Jennifer Knapp captures it well in one of her songs: "For all the sin that lives in me, it took a nail to set me free, still what I do I don't want to do and so goes the story." In the midst of this, however, a hopeful wave of light has always broken through my darkness and just as C.S. Lewis puts it in The Four Loves, "Grace substitutes a full, childlike and delighted acceptance of our need, a joy in total dependence. The good man is sorry for the sins which have increased his need. He is not entirely sorry for the fresh need they have produced." With this new start before me, I am wanting to be taught how to wholly embrace my poverty and weakness in which His power is made perfect. I am wanting to catch more glimpses of His unfathomable grace of immeasurable depth. A grace which is utterly sufficient - no need to apply spiritual cosmetics - the "furious love of God" knows no season of change. New Year's resolutions attained or not, God loves inside out and pours out His grace afresh with each and every new day. We can glance upwards and be astonished to find the eyes of Jesus open with wonder, deep with understanding and gentle with compassion. God's extravagant grace just compells me to want to sink deeper into Him - I want to rise with the sun and be moved and amazed by His grace. That's my January resolution; my prayer. I want my deepest awareness of myself to be that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and that I have done nothing to earn it or deserve it.

Lift up your eyes on high, and see who has created these things, who brings out their host by number; He calls them each by name, by the greatness of His might, and the strength of His power; not one is missing. (Isaiah 40:26)

When I consider Your heavens,
the work of Your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which You have set in place,
what is man that You are mindful of him,
the son of man that You care for him?
You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings
and crowned him with glory and honor.

You made him ruler over the works of Your hands;
You put everything under his feet:
all flocks and herds,
and the beasts of the field,
the birds of the air,
and the fish of the sea,
all that swim the paths of the seas.

O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is Your name in all the earth!
(Psalm 8:3-9)

In the light of Your magnificent, inspiring, minutely detailed, wonderful and awesome creation, my heart cannot break enough for the love and grace that flowed out of Your wounds at Calvary - nor for the grace and love I am unceasingly lavished with as I proceed, unknowingly, through my days.

"This is the God of the gospel of grace. A God, who out of love for us, sent the only Son He ever had wrapped in our skin. He learned how to walk, stumbled and fell, cried for His milk, sweated blood in the night, was lashed with a whip and showered with spit, was fixed to a cross and died whispering forgiveness on us all." (Brennan Manning)

Twilight

The sky is painted pink, orange and blue,
The long dark trees are my companions
The snow lights up the mountains
And there's no other place I'd rather be.

Driving home, house full of memories
Sitting next to you with laughter-filled lungs,
I've got no pictures of this day
Aside for those in the theatre of my mind.

A day spent up there, an evening here:
Times like these have fed my soul
With a new fragrance,
And I couldn't ask for more.

I'll be packing soon enough,
And I'll make sure to take these souvenirs
Across these miles
Of a sweet, sweet winter time.

A day spent up there, an evening here
Times like these have fed my soul
A day spent up there, an evening here
Times like these have fed my soul
With a new fragrance.

Driving home, house full of memories
The sky is painted pink, orange and blue.

The snow lights up the mountains
And there's no other place I'd rather be, tonight.