Come now, and let us reason, saith the Lord on high,
Though your sins be as scarlet, red as deepest dye,
They shall be made as white as snow that softly falls,
A mantle pure descending where the mercy calls.

See how the heavens open in a silent stream,
Each flake a perfect hexagon, a crystalline dream,
Six rays of fragile splendor branching out in grace,
No two the same, yet every one in beauty’s place.

The air grows sharp and silver, biting yet so clean,
A scent of frost and pine where winter’s breath is seen,
It fills the lungs with crispness, scours the heart of care,
And leaves the spirit lifted in the chill, pure air.

Upon the skin it settles, cool as whispered peace,
A velvet kiss that numbs the ache, bids sorrows cease,
Then melts to tiny rivers tracing paths of light,
Like tears of absolution in the winter night.

The world lies hushed beneath this drifting, weightless veil,
Footsteps muffled softly, every sound grown pale,
The scarlet stains of yesterday now buried deep,
In drifts of endless whiteness, where no guilt may creep.

Intricate the snowflake gleams beneath the moon’s soft gaze,
A lacework forged in silence through celestial ways,
Yet vast the promise echoes: though your guilt was red,
Behold—the soul made whiter than the snow instead.

So let this beauty preach its quiet, wordless lore,
Forgiveness falling steady, covering evermore,
Till every heart, once burdened, stands redeemed and free,
As white as snow, as boundless as eternity.