The fields are chilled.
The scattered rain has ceased.
The colors of spring are gone.
Sounds of nature have finished singing
leaving lyrics without a sound.

The rite is not accomplished.
The mass has been spoken twice.
Myriads of doctrines have been shattered
within the shadow of sacrifice.

Tubular bells are clanging,
echoing of coming wrath.
Whispers of the last communion
are within the darkness of the glass.

The earthen pots have shattered
where only the slain remain.
Cliffs that rose ten thousand feet
are leveled by Nature's almighty plane.

Wounding the Divine Lover by the lust of man,
The Victorious King draws near.
He brings no restoration
for the profiteer and seer.

The singer has one last lyric.
Earth's poets have lost their muse.
Yet, a gentle wind fans the night
for the comrade of the gospel news.

Hope persists to linger
within the fragrant scent of grace
for only those predestined
from earth's fondation to see His face.