The color of sin is white;
this is sacrilege, I know.
Still, white is an everythingness,
a pervasive mess.
It is a blanket of snow,
or the eternity of death.
It stretches, like heat,
and it contracts and cracks
like ice.
Like sin.
Red hyssop will stain it
until it is not,
until the white -
and the sin - are not,
and I am clean.
Sin is tricky like that.
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