What do I do with myself?
It isn’t easy to say –
I’ve lived only a little while;
None of my hairs are grey.
I haven’t seen many loved ones pass,
Nor has there been one gone before me
To trail blaze the wilderness ahead,
Clear footprints graciously forming.
Good King Wenceslas had a good page
Who tread in his footsteps boldly
It seems my King has left His footsteps too,
But it feels I am looked upon coldly –
While I was busy
Not knowing what I knew,
Gusts of thick snow
Swiftly over the footprints blew.