A Small Light Called Hope

 

When the night is cold and deep,
And the weary world has gone to sleep,
A tiny light still softly glows,
Hidden where the wild wind blows.

Hope is not a roaring flame,
Not a crown or famous name,
It is the whisper in the rain:
“You will rise and try again.”

It lives inside the breaking dawn,
After every storm has gone,
In trembling hands that still hold tight,
Searching bravely for the light.

Hope is the seed beneath the snow,
Quietly waiting still to grow,
Trusting spring will someday come,
Though winter beats its frozen drum.

And even when the road feels long,
Hope becomes a silent song,
Carried gently through the dark,
A steady and unyielding spark.

So when your sky is filled with gray,
And joy feels very far away,
Remember this: the darkest night
Still ends beneath the morning light.