When the light returns and the long night fades,

and dawn slips soft through shadowed shades,

you feel the hush before the day –

a whisper of grace that finds its way.

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The year turns slow beyond the wall,

yet Christ still comes to hearts that call;

not crowned in gold, nor robed in flame,

but born in dark, and born the same.

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He comes to places harsh and bare,

to hidden hearts in need of care;

to those who sit with heavy eyes,

and wonder if their hope still lies.

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The world outside may sing and shine,

with trees and bells and Christmas wine;

but here, where silence seems to stay,

the Saviour still is born today.

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He knows the weight that walls contain,

the grief, the guilt, the inner chain;

for He too wore the robe of pain,

and walked through death to live again.

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No gate, no guard, no lock, no key

can close the door of Calvary;

His love still reaches, fierce and far,

through every wound, through every scar.

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And though this night may feel confined,

His light still lingers, clear and kind;

it flickers softly, pure, and true—

the Christ-child’s gaze that rests on you.

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So lift your heart and dare believe,

that mercy waits for all who grieve;

that when your freedom finds its day,

His grace will go with you—always.

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The fields will open, the sky unfold,

and sunlight wash the bars with gold;

you’ll step into that brighter air,

and find that He was always there.

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For love that came in manger small

still moves through stone and steel and wall;

and when at last your gates are turned,

you’ll walk out whole—redeemed, re-learned.

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So rest tonight in quiet trust,

though time be slow and walls are dust;

the child once born in straw and pain

will rise in you and live again.

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And when that morning calls your name,

step forward free, yet not the same;

for Christ, who waited in your night,

will walk beside you in the light.