The green green grass on winter’s ground
Lone, flutters in the wind.
All else that grew is dried and browned,
Asleep, to winter spend.
It stands against the winter’s freeze,
A rare variety,
And waves, like fingers, in the breeze,
It is the same when sin’s dark stain
Spreads o’er the drying land,
Like rust and rot invade the grain,
And saints, green, holy, stand.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.