Along the ground the drying leaves
Hustle mournfully;
I hear them whispering as they slither,
“Whither, Higher Power, whither?
The end, what shall it be?”
Along the street I saw a man
Shuffle hopelessly;
I heard him mutter, as he stumbled,
“I think my God has somehow fumbled,
To make a this of me.”
Man, whose mind on reason borders,
Has little on the “lower” orders ..
11-26-44
(In Sunday School)
by Ray Romine Sunday, November 26, 1944
