THE HARVEST, THE END OF THE WORLD.
The fields are all white, the harvest is near,
The angels all with their sharp sickles appear,
To reap down the wheat and gather it in barns,
While the wild plants of nature are left for to burn. Come then, O my soul, meditate on that day,
When all things in nature shall cease and decay;
When the trumpet shall sound, the angels appear,
To reap down the earth both the wheat and the tare. But hear the sad cry ascend to the sky,
Of those in distress that have no where to fly;
They'll call for the rocks and mountains to fall,
On their wretched souls for to hide them withal. Then O wretched sinners, look up and espy
The glorious Redeemer in his march down the sky,
In a chariot of fire to the earth he is bound,
With a guard of bright angels attending him down. Come hither, ye nations, your sentence receive,
No longer my Spirit shall strive and be grieved;
My sentence is right, my judgment is just,
Come hither ye blest, but depart all ye cursed. O sinners, take warning and seek ye the Lord,
I have not been jesting, 'tis Jesus' own word,
That those who believe in glory shall stand,
While all unbelievers are sure to be damned. Now farewell, I leave you to ponder your way,
May the Lord seal instruction from what I now say:
That our souls to God's throne may be poured out in prayer,
That we may be prepared to meet Christ in the air.