The Frost Where God Bled
They said He never fought.
That He sent others—winged, obedient, aflame.
That He stayed above the fray,
Too holy to touch the dirt.
But they never saw the frost.
Not the one that crept through the courtroom,
Where lies were dressed in robes.
Not the one that settled on the skin
Of the boy they called monster.
They never saw Him descend.
No trumpet. No scroll.
Just silence that cracked like bone.
He did not come with wrath.
He came with memory.
Of every slander, every exile,
Every name carved into flesh.
He bled—but not red.
His blood was frost.
It crystallized on the ground
Where innocence had been buried.
No angel could fight this.
No flame could cleanse it.
Only the One who knew
What it meant to be misunderstood.
He did not smite.
He stood.
And the frost spread like truth
Across the battlefield of shame.
And when it was done,
The boy was not erased.
He was crowned.
Not with gold—but with clarity.
The frost did not kill.
It revealed.
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