November Song of Praise

Praise Him, the meadow is stripped of its harvest

Praise Him, the orchard is plucked of its fruit

Praise Him, the chill wind roams, cold through the woodlot

Where summer’s soft leaf-song lies still at the root

Praise Him though flaunt of the garden has withered 

As gray and brown pigment fills the Painter’s brush

Praise Him; the beauty of autumn’s departure

Bleeds on the landscape in somnolent hush

Praise him; His grace is not ‘but for a season’

Praise him; His hope makes our journey worthwhile

Sunshine and suffering both have their reason

The gauntlet to glory is worth every mile

Praise Him; though chill of the twilight is weeping

Tears on the windowpane, snuffing daylight

Praise Him; for safe in the Master’s kind keeping

Are all of His children; none lost to His sight

Praise Him in glad times or seasons of waiting

Wise is the blue-print of patience-wrought faith

Praise Him; though fathoms lie twixt earth and heaven

His love surrounds us in a hallowed wraith

Praise Him; the color of autumn’s abating

Settles against the backdrop of lost charms

Time treads the corridor of God’s creating

We tread the pathway that leads to His arms

© Janet Martin