In winter fields a scarecrow sings the hopeful tune of lonely kings.
His empty heart is thin and cold, his cruel rags are worn and old.
But in our home we sing out clear, warm words of joy and know no fear.
In bed at night we listen to for, padded footsteps at the door.
In other fields and different lands, living scarecrows reach out hands.
They live beneath the Sun's cruel
rays. They don't know of Christmas days.
By:
Pie Corbett
