ON MY WAY

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

GOLDEN


Weeping leaves like golden tears
Kissing gently frosted ground
Beneath gnarled tree; soft under feet
A golden carpet spreads around

Frost has loosened holding stem
Breeze has caught them in her breath
Sets them on the dewy grass
Like golden coinage of untold wealth

A tree once stood in leafless form
No crown of beauty could it wear
For on its trunk cruelly nailed
The Son of God was hanging there

Weeping blood like crimson tears
Flowing softly to the ground
Beneath gnarled tree at His feet
Peace for my soul was finally found

Golden leaves of a carpet deep
A golden path that I tread
Soon to walk a golden street
With a golden crown on my head

Colin Moffett

HARVEST TIME


It steals along the morning vale
The dewdrops of the autumn mist
And through its curtain the sun shines pale
Along riverbank it will persist
 
Then softly blows the wind of morn
Over bounteous fields kissed with sun and rain
And whispers in the ears of wheat and corn
Harvest time is here again

It tosses the head of majestic tree
Plucking coloured gems from its crown
Where from the branches falling free
The autumn leaves come winging down

And now there is unceasing toil
From morning sun ‘til harvest moon
To gather the bounty from the soil
For winter days are creeping soon

And busy hands gather in the wheat
The earthy potatoes from the drill
The fruit of tree so good to eat
For barns of storage are to fill

Back through the mist of years
Jesus walked the harvest field
And gazed upon the golden ears
When mother earth had produced her yield

And watched it fall to reaper swing
The ripened heads fit for harvest now
After days of growing from the spring
When seeds were sown behind the plough

Then compared the world to whitened field
Where dying souls are like falling leaves
Who will reap the harvest field?
And carry home the precious sheaves

Who will seek precious souls to win?
Before scythe of death begins to mow
To tell of Jesus who frees from sin
For they will reap what they will sow

Jesus looks to me and calls to you
Who by His blood our sin relieves
His harvest reapers we are few
But let us work to gather in His sheaves

Colin Moffett