Ripe fields of grain now worthless stubble, the towers of Babel now lie in rubble, Destruction reigns and death abounds how long Gabriel till your trumpet sounds? The wine-press overflows , crushing  grapes of wrath, the locusts have invaded leaving nothing in their path. Like dawn creeping over the mountain the army has arrived, before them the garden of Eden, behind them nothing survives. Shadows shifting like the moon eclipsing, darkening the sky, invading the promised land replacing truth with lies. The stench of death rises upward from the parched and barren land, the army of the locusts more numerous than grains of sand. The Saints rise up triumphant and prepare themselves for war, they  beat their plowshares into swords they’ll be oppressed and scorned no more. The Saints rise up triumphant the lord is on their side. His trumpet sounds in Zion, his strength he will provide. Building their temples on shifting sands, longing for the garden searching for the Promised Land. Re-building the towers from the ruins and the stones, the walls are getting higher around this valley of dead bones, The rocks are crying out but they keep turning them to bread, drowsy heavy slumber as they lie starving though well-fed. The twelve tribes are fighting, we all struggle with God. All under the reign of one king who rules the nations with an iron rod.