On the shortest day of the year the sun seems to wither away and solemn darkness cloaks the earth.
The whole world rattles in its chains, captive of icy blasts - prisoner of sharp and frigid winds.
Where do we go for shelter? Where can we turn for hope? Where shall we turn? Where on this darkest day of the year?
So we do as our ancestors knew they must. We start our crackling fires, build shelters of rock and wood – and drape ourselves in skins and weaves, clinging fast to one another. This shall be our fortress and shield against the icy blasts.
On the shortest day of the year, We lift our eyes to the starry sky. We seek and find our hope In merry carols, candles, and rites of peace. Thus we rashly dare to cast aside the bitter sting of winter’s cruel offense and ring the cheerful bells of hope.