At The Eleventh Hour Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

Over at last, that most bitter harvest task
The gathering of the cut down by the sack -
The fields quietened from the bringing back
Of canvas slings, the stumbling to the track.

And those who were cut down at the last
Received the same token as those cut first
All being brought to judgment as they must
Worthy of their hire and the vintner's trust.

At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day
The labourers ceased their bloodstain harvest
Wanting only rest, indifferent to pay
Ending the carrying to the wine press:

That those who picked and chose the skins of men
Might take their pay in life and try to live again.