No peace more perfect than a virgin snow;

Sweet lambs of heaven softly drifting down,

Shepherded by zephyrs in a silent show

Whose algid arms now swirl them around.

Yet waft they must in blessed and breathless flight

To gently rest on reverent green copse boughs—

Upraised in prayer, in Yuletide’s holy light,

Like argent angels wrapped in feather down.

Frost now etches the world in Elysian dreams,

Each pane adorned with silver filigree;

God’s blanket of redemption—pure, supreme—

Swaddles the world in hushed serenity.

Asleep as on the breast of Abraham:

Awaiting Spring—and hope’s redeeming Lamb!