Who sends the white and feathery snow
From yonder inky cloud?
Its gentle flakes fall soft and slow
Till shrubs and flowers they shroud.
Now scarlet berries, leaflets green,
Are hidden from our sight;
Nor is the earth e’en longer seen,
All, all is spotless white.
Dear children, He who makes the snow,
And sends it from the sky,
Is God, who to us long ago,
Sent Jesus here to die.
And by His blood our souls are made,
Ah! whiter than the snow;
Thus speaks His word, and what’s there said
Is true, we fully know.