Granny's Box of Papers

God Does This
By Lottie Zimmer
He paints the red of the sunset; He crimsons the rambling rose;
He gives sweet scent to the lilac and crystals the fluttering snows;
He gives to the peach its flavor
He gives to the bird its trill
He planned the aurora borealis, and the song of the whippoorwill.
The swordfish deep in the ocean
The wild deer’s timid leap
The golden sands of the desert hot
And the mountain paths so steep
The frail, pink blossoms of April that sprinkle the woodlands low
The pines with their gentle murmur deep green against banks of snow
And the genius and wise of all ages whose inventions have pierced earths gloom
Combined all their skill and power cannot make one hepatica bloom
Cannot paint the soft petals of daisies nor unfold one delicate bud
But God in some dreary old marshland brings fleur-de-lis out of the mud
He uses the same skill always, in whatever his hand has made,
The peacocks tail the butterfly’s wing or violates deep in the shade
The wild plums burst into bloom each spring and each fall great trees turn red
God pity the man who's deaf and blind as to preach that God is dead

This was from my granny's collection of papers she kept that I inherited when she passed 

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