In Autumn when the leaves turn brown And red and gold, they all fall down. To paint a picture, oh so rare! I know that God is there... To mastermind His ebb and flow; To stage His wondrous Autumn show, To brush His skies with molten gold; I watch His art unfold. No grander sight could I behold: These leaves of brown and red and gold. But Winter bodes its icy chills Upon the snow-clad hills. In time the land, a living scene, Comes bursting forth in savage green; And I confront the season's thieves That took my Autumn leaves. But soon a softness in the air! God paints a picture, oh so rare Of Autumn leaves that all turn brown And red and gold as they fall down.
~~By Henry W. Gurley.~~
The air turns cool, the leaves turn brown, A change is taking place, And everywhere the signs appear Of Fall's approaching face. The birds begin their southward flight That takes them far away, And in their plaintive song and cry A fond good-bye they say. A season dies, a new one's born Like night gives way to day. Such is the wondrous work of God In His own chosen way.
~~By Harold F. Mohn.~~
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