The growing season behind us now,
I gaze into the field,
The autumn harvest is at hand,
How many will we yield?
The crop was looking bountiful,
The sun was shining so,
No time to rest and celebrate,
The weeds will surely grow.
The seeds were planted earnestly,
Within the fertile soil,
But much was washed away by rain,
Despite my constant toil.
The insects came and had their way,
Such chaos they did cause,
The crop no longer copious,
And showing many flaws.
Calloused hands and troubled hearts,
Discouraged to the core,
Fleeting time still pressing in,
The enemy at the door.
I know the season marches on,
Though much has gone awry.
The leaves are orange, brown and red,
The end I can’t deny.
Yet hope and trust of yesterday,
Rise up from deep within,
Rekindled faith will overcome,
Despair, dismay and sin.
The autumn leaves are falling down,
No longer in a bind,
Your love and grace have rescued me,
We’ll save this crop in time.
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