Morning Has Broken

By: Dana Swanson

As I rise from bed, the sun sluggishly does the same. Flannel sheets replaced by a winter chill, I find myself humming Morning has Broken to soften the transition.

Morning has broken Like the first morning, Black bird has spoken Like the first bird. Praise the singing! Praise for the morning! Praise for them springing Fresh from the Word!

As my gloved hand pulls the door closed behind me, I am greeted by blades of grass, each zipped up in a frosty coat. With each inhale, crisp air fills my lungs. As I jog west, the silhouette of Mount Rainier smiles at the skyline, his inverted grin looming in the distance.

Sweet the rain's new fall Sunlit from heaven, Like the first dewfall On the first grass. Praise for the sweetness Of the wet garden, Sprung in completeness Where His feet pass.

Shy orange light coyly brushes above the Cascades, drawing jagged lines across the still and reflective waters of Green Lake. As an egg shell cracks and its yellow yolk spills into a skillet, the horizon cracks and light spills over the Earth. Yes, I have breakfast on the mind.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning. Born of the one light Eden saw play! Praise with elation, Praise ev'ry morning, God's recreation Of the newday!

The mountain ridges, accented by the day’s first light, form a furrowed brow across the horizon. While climbing Phinney Ridge, I glance over my shoulder at the Olympics completing their morning routine. My rosy cheeks beam at the ridges, and the mountains blush back. I’ll take this over sleeping in any day. Praise every morning.