How glorious, this ending day,
the puffy clouds were orange and pink;
how marvelous the light did play
as the bright sun began to sink.
And driving home I had the thought
that painters might, with skill, produce
some bit of what mere nature brought
without purpose or planned out use.
I thought how canvas might be stained
to replicate Heavenly scenes
so that this chance might be sustained
and hung in halls of kings and queens.
Yet surely this passing delight
was least of all Your treasure trove.
To You what worth is this brief sight
offered to all that day who drove?
I ponder this, and soon I think
that You delight in such a show,
of painting skies in vibrant pink
so man might someday come to know:
Like unborn babes who hear a voice—
How shall we know You on this earth
but for this chance to here rejoice?
The Beautiful gives beauty birth.
Another day is spent and done;
the hour’s past and morrow’s here.
I’m off to bed ere rising sun
in imitation reappears.
Tale Told 