by Steve Jake
A poetry on the future of mankind and the end of the age.
The white horse is waiting
The white horse is waiting,
Awaiting its master,
Who comes with HIS fiery sickle,
A flaming sickle to reap HIS field,
When it is harvest time.
The master awaits,
Awaits with a heavy heart,
Seeing the pain and agony of HIS beloved ones,
And the misery and chaos out there,
But HE can only, but await,
Wait for the harvest to come,
To reap HIS field, when the time is apt.
The master is waiting,
Awaiting for the last drop to drain out,
The last drop of goodness, the last drop of hope,
The last drop of love, the last drop of faith,
Harvest will it be when the last one dies,
The last who is righteous, the last who is faithful,
And the world is plunged into the realm of darkness,
Then will the time be ripe for harvest.
And lo the harvest comes finally,
Before anyone could realize,
And when no one anticipates,
With deafening roars of thunder,
And dazzling streaks of lightning,
HE cracks open the sky and comes forth,
Mounted on HIS white horse,
With a flaming sword in HIS hand,
Galloping across the sky,
For the world is ripe for harvest.
The world in chaos, the world in darkness,
The world in misery, the world in sin,
Sees the light that has dawned,
A new ray of hope, a new ray of life,
A mighty hand that crushes down,
An affectionate hand that cuddles.
HE sets HIS foot on the ground,
And the world trembles in fear and joy,
Every tongue confesses HIS name,
And everyone will mourn,
HE reaps HIS field with HIS sickle,
And divides the grains from the chaff,
The grains HE collects to store in HIS barn,
While the chaff HE binds and throws into the fire.
HE goes in search of HIS sheep,
Calls each one of his flock by name,
And none shall go astray, and none shall be lost,
For HE is the true deliverer, the true shepherd of HIS sheep.
HE parts the sheep from the goats,
And guides HIS sheep to HIS flock,
HE is the true shepherd and master,
The deliverer and redeemer,
The saviour of HIS beloved sheep.
HIS sheep hears HIS call,
And runs to him,
Like a child running to his mother,
And HE lifts HIS sheep in HIS arms and with hugs and kisses.
HE sees not the blemishes of HIS sheep,
For those are HIS loved ones,
Purified and sanctified by HIS blood,
Their names are inscribed in HIS palms,
And also in HIS heart,
HE guides HIS sheep to its abode,
Like a mother carrying her child to a cradle.
And then HE goes out in search of the wolf,
The treacherous one, the most ferocious,
HE hunts down the wolf, and binds it up,
To be cast into the pit of fire.
A green grass meadow afar off,
A spring of cool water that runs deep,
Trees in full bloom, and blossoms everywhere,
A paradise lay afar off,
HE guides HIS flock to paradise,
To dwell with his loved ones,
Where sun never sets, and time never flows,
Where each moment lasts forever.
The rest is gone deep into the pit,
Into the fathoms of the furnace,
Burning and charring constantly,
Wailing and mourning forever,
With pain and sorrow, agony and misery,
Burning down in the deep furnace.
A new sunshine, a new fountain,
A new meadow, a new mountain,
With new hopes, and a new destiny,
Life moves on in paradise.