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
To mastermind His ebb and flow;
To stage His wondrous Autumn
To brush His skies with molten gold;
I watch His art
No grander sight could I behold:
These leaves of brown and red
But Winter bodes its icy chills
Upon the snow-clad
In time the land, a living scene,
Comes bursting forth in
And I confront the season's thieves
That took my
But soon a softness in the air!
God paints a picture, oh so
Of Autumn leaves that all turn brown
And red and gold as
they fall down.