A poem for Thanksgiving.
The fields are bare, the Harvest stored, —
the earth rests now, its Gifts outpoured.
The golden grain and ripened vine
have Graced our hands with Bread and Wine.
The Table set, the Candles glow, —
a quiet Peace the heart will know.
For every Blessing, great and small,
we bow before the Lord of All.
His Mercies meet us Every Day,
e’en through Trials along the way.
The strength to Rise—the grace to Stand, —
are Gifts bestowed by His own hand.
The children’s laughter, skies of blue,
the love of friends, the morning dew, —
each moment whispers, “God is near,”
through Joy and Sorrow, year by year.
With hearts of Thanks, we lift our eyes
to Him whose Mercy never dies.
The Giver of this Life we hold;
He keeps His Promises from of Old.
So let us gathered here Proclaim
the Wonders of His Holy Name.
From Hearth and Home to Heaven’s door,
we Praise His Goodness evermore.
The Lutheran Column 