Lord, tell me how each snip of snow
that melds into the glass
can tip-toe by your ear and drum
a low sigh on your lap.

It waltzes to the cracking roof
that guards a drafting barn
where you lay two thousand years before
in mottled swathes of yarn.

A brush against a splintered beam
will splotch its frozen cape
with drops of ruby warmth that blot
the mold of every flake.

Lord, show me how your full, rich blood
can thaw a heart stung stiff
and craft a child all your own
held strong in mercy’s lift.