Under the morning sun, where the deer play
Tromping through the woods, looking for some food,
The brilliant sun, beams its gentle rays
Waiting patiently for their little brood.
The winter's chill, has often been so crude,
They cuddle with eachother, to keep warm,
God's gift of nature, has to be valued
They have to brave against vicious snowstorms.
Off in the distance, dark clouds start to form
God's gentle creatures, they look for shelter,
They hide deep in the woods, from the windstorm
Try to keep themselves safe from all danger.
God's gentle creatures lay quietly still
As the snow gently falls upon the hills.
