Upon the carpet of the earth
Meets our misery and mirth
Upon the splendor and the spoil
Still we tarry and we toil
We are pilgrims of the sod
On a journey up to God
Upon a sad, sin-stained plateau
Seasons come and seasons go
There is naught a man can do
To detain an hour or two
But the Hand that turns the wheel
Sees the humble pilgrim kneel
As He paints each field and hill
In the colors of his will
As His splendor cloaks the world
In a wreath of love unfurled
On this carpet made of sod
We can touch the hand of God
All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin
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