“Be still,” He said, whispering gently to the expectant wood,
The Mighty, Holy Author of all light,
“Cease your leafy labors bearing food.
Let the quiet chill of autumn’s night woo your brilliant beauty to a head.
Delight Me as I fashioned you of old,
Your golden, crimson plumage to behold.”
They heard His holy whispers lilting like a hymn, all the verdant leafy columns of the wood,
And yielded, as all nature will attest,
To the Voice of Him whom they understood,
The Master of their seasons of industry and rest,
And surrendered every one, each leaf and limb, to the lullaby of Him who planned of old
That autumn’s light be wreathed in radiant gold.
Rejoicing as their foliage flamed in glorious hue, and wond’ring at mankind’s ceaseless, frenzied pace,
They to their Master lifted up their cry,
“Would that men could see You face to face,
And would upon Your Sovereign Will rely,
As they were fashioned to delight all ways in You, and hear Your call to rest as they behold
The splendor of Your handiwork in autumn’s radiant gold.”
“Some men will,” He answered as they cried, “behold My face and love My sov’reign plan as do you,
In your obedience to My voice and My design.
You’ve been created by and for My Son who foreknew
Each frantic, sin-sick soul who sees your golden shine,
And hears My Spirit’s witness that for each He died, upon a tree bearing countless sorrows and untold.
For these His crimson poured, in season, op’ning Heaven’s gold.”
©Patricia Stachew, November 2004