Septembers Harvest

Ripe fields of grain now worthless stubble, the towers of Babel now lie in rubble, Destruction reigns and death abounds how long Gabriel till your trumpet sounds? The wine press overflows with grapes of wrath, the locusts have invaded leaving nothing in their path. Like dawn creeping over the mountain the army has arrived, before them the garden of Eden, behind them nothing survives, shadows shifting like the moon eclipsing, darkening the sky, invading the promised land replacing truth with lies. The stench of death rises upward from the parched and barren land, the army of the locusts more numerous than grains of sand. Saints rise up triumphant prepare yourselves for war, beat your plowshares into swords be oppressed and scorned no more. Saints rise up triumphant the lord is on our side. His trumpet sounds in Zion, his strength he will provide.