Autumn has come. Leaves droop and die.
They fall to the ground with a perceptible sigh.
Raising its voice, wind scatters the leaves
Creating brown branches and skeletal trees.
Clouds cover the sun. The heavens grow gray.
Rain drops from sky, day after day.
Nights grow much longer. The sun takes its rest
As darkness creeps over; first east, then west.
Temperatures plummet. The furnace awakes.
The cold hounds of winter, rise, stretch and shake.
Harbinger of winter, destroyer of life,
Frost covers the pumpkin, Freeze plunges the knife.
Fires are started. Bed blankets grow deep.
Our lives like the trees crave ever more sleep.
But why is it so? What does it mean?
Why curse we Autumn? Why celebrate Spring?
Perhaps its the death of flowers and grass
Which brings to our minds that we too shall pass.
Perhaps its the loss of beauty and cheer
Bringing us thoughts of past friends so dear.
But isn’t it strange, in this time of year
Thanksgiving and Christmas appear?
In Autumn we sing of blessings bestowed,
Of family and friends and favors that flowed
Like rivers across each life’s road.
No, not Autumn we grieve, or Winter so drear,
Or Summer so warm, with skies blue and clear.
In Spring, it was Spring, with flowers aglow
That Life itself was dealt death’s cold blow.
In Spring, it was Spring, when birds build their nests
That a new tomb was filled below the hill’s crest.
In Spring, it was Spring. We recall it yet still;
The dread and despair, that Autumn-like chill
When our God had died. The silence was shrill.
Hope fell away, down, down from that hill.
All had been lost. Death covered its kill.
We thought all was lost. We did not then know
That death was the victim, Christ dealt death death’s blow.
He died on a cross, the curse of the tree.
He died as a sinner, for you and for me.
But sinner, oh, no! Not He!
Jesus, so pure, so free.
He died with a purpose, to save us from sin.
He died as Our Savior, our souls to win.
He died as a servant. He lives as a king.
He died to redeem us. Oh let us then sing!
Communion of love, we shall not forget
The pain and the anguish, the blood that was let
On Calvary’s mount, where God and man met.
From Autumn to Winter, from Winter to Spring,
His body met death; but death could not fling
From Jesus the life which He came to bring.
In Spring, it was Spring; in death, death died.
This Autumn we commemorate The Crucified.
A Christian poem by: Tim Binder November 8, 2008