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This was a day the Lord hath made,
and I'm sure there was a reason,
but I can't forgive Him, though I should have known,
Winter is the cruelest of seasons.
I wrapped myself in to the lies,
on the day I gave into the cold,
and convinced myself a warm blanket
could be weaved from ice and stone.
I can’t deny that I bear blame,
though my anger points a righteous finger.
I suppose I thought depravity,
would be willing to let my virtue linger.
Yet, there it lied under mounds of snow,
rotting and fading away.
All my faith and value was smothered
on that short Winter’s day.