You Gave Us Autumn

You could’ve made the leaves turn black,

branches dressed in gloom;

You could’ve let the tree limbs break,

broken bones forecasting doom.

You could’ve brought the dark clouds low,

to hover and oppress;

to bring forth sorrow, grief, and guilt—

the world in mourning dress.

You could’ve made the sun go dark,

the moon no more to glow;

You could've split the world apart

to usher in the cold.

You could’ve left us in our sin,

sketched in shades of gray,

to remind us of the death required

—the price You had to pay.

Instead, You gave us Autumn,

with leaves of red and gold

that flutter down in gentle passing

—a promise still foretold.

The portrait of a hopeful end,

of grace despite decay;

to show us that though winter comes,

Love has made a way.

For though the green things dormant lie,

and wind and rain blow brisk,

hope glitters still upon the ground,

frosty, fresh, and crisp.

The soft exchange of seasons

paints redemption’s plan;

You could’ve made them black and white—

tossed rough from hand to hand.

Instead, You gave us Autumn

and her youthful sister, Spring:

death and resurrected life

and grace in the space between.