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The Snow Drifts Down
Robert Weston

Across the hill and dell, valley and upland,
Smooth as a blanket across the world,
Softly falling, falling,
Quietly, gently as a mother’s kiss
On the face of her sleeping child,
The snow drifts down, touches, settles,
Lies on tree and shrub, on field and woodland,
Like a soft mantle,
Making all things new       

So be my heart this day:
The pain of things done and injuries unmended,
The fears of things unseen and long dreaded,
The ache of failures and mistakes of times past,
The sudden angry passion and the bitter regret,
And strength ebbing away with the inexorable beat of time,
All forgotten, or restored to innocence,
Clothed in gentle purity,
The universal forgiveness which whispers to me,
“Behold, I make all things new!”

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