The clouds move fast as the shy grows dark
by Richard Merrell
The winds blows greatly at the cry of the Lark;
All colour is gone everything's turned black
The heat is tremendous, men's skin starts to crack.
Men's eyes are falling out, their tongues shrivel up
As they satnd upon their feet, it's a terrible cup;
I stand in their midst and watch as the tide
Of this horrible plague kills ten thousand at my side.
The screams of mankind pierce the darkened gloom
As I walk in the midst their blood finds no room;
Then BEHOLD I see the sign of the LION -
My Lord comes forth, from His Holy Hill of ZION!