by: Donald A. MacCord

I see His hand high up on yonder mountains far,
In the mighty eagles flight and shrill,
I sense His presence in the fields below,
I see His hand in the valley still, 
Quite and damp, lit softly by the morning star.

The meadows decked in crowns of amber,
The boughs of oak and stately pine,
Need not speak to tell with words of candor
for in truth, the Glory of His hand doth shine
And proclaims to all His plan divine.

And as the golden morning sun doth rise
It's beams of splendor white and yellow
fall gently on my aging face and eyes, 
I sense the more the nearness of His hand
and His promise that nothing truely dies.