M Ryan Taylor: Harvest Hymn

The fields are all white, the harvest is near, the reapers all with their sharp sickles appear, to reap down the wheat, and gather in barns, while wild plants of nature are left for to burn. Twill all be in vain, the mountains must flee, the rocks fly like hailstones and shall no more be; the earth it will shake, the seas shall retire, and this solid world will then all be on fire. Come then, O my soul, and think on that day, when all things in nature shall cease and decay. The trumpet shall sound, the angels appear, to reap down the earth, both the wheat and the tare. (Jeremiah Ingalls, 19th cent.)