The cold mist filters through the trees
And twines around my heart,
I feel the hair rise on my neck
Trouble’s about to start.
It weighs upon me like the cold
Lies on the winter bay.
I shake my head to ease the dread,
It settles in to stay.
The mist won’t lift throughout the day
It’s buried in the trees;
The dread is taut across my back
And I can find no ease.
I lift my hands to you, oh Lord,
I ask you on my knees
To lift the mist that chills my world
And calm my worries, please.
Hosea 13:3
Therefore they will be like the morning mist, like the early dew that disappears, like chaff swirling from a threshing floor, like smoke escaping through a window.
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