An old man with so little to do.
Says he’ll paint a picture or two.
All the beauty he sees, he want to tell.
Using God’s given talent, he does it so well.
With brushes swift and eyes so keen.
He captures on canvas everything seen.
Walking slowly, never hurrying by.
He sees what’s missed by you and I.
The tress adorned in crimson and gold.
A lasting remembrance for all to behold.
Lilies graciously waving in the wind.
Never to look this way again.
Roses drenched by the morning dew.
His skillful hand claimed that too.
Water, both rushing and still.
Power the wheel at the old Logan mill.
Sprinkling glitter on the new fallen snow.
Touched by the sun’s warming glow.
The golden sunset, slowly slipping away.
Bidding good night to another glorious day.
If he ever saw any ugly and gray.
He sure never painted it that way.
His brushes were put down, one by one.
His final masterpiece at last was done.
The face of the painter I so often recall.
As I admire his pictures hanging on my wall.