Behold the prophecies foretold:
Terrors of tomorrow...
To live and watch each one unfold,
Feasts of joy and sorrow,
Mid Spring and Summer, Autumn, too,
With Winter as before,
Until one man comes into view...
He's rotten to the core...
When babies walk, he's learnt to run,
In time, he's learnt to fly...
For you behold the Devil's Son,
The Master of the lie.
With sorceries and ancient spells,
Dark secrets hid in time,
Commanding legions from the hells,
Well versed in death and crime...
What use are lies for short term gains?
They feed our bellies now...
Praise God, God's Spirit still restrains
The beast's mark on each brow...
If not for judgement, all is lost,
The world itself laid bare,
For every soul must count the cost,
Of beast lies be aware...
Till Christ returns, Jerusalem
Will seem as all alone,
This royal city stays God's gem,
Protected from His Throne...
Unprotected by lucky charms,
Though valley victims pray,
Woe unto those who take up arms,
They live their final day...
Denis Martindale, copyright, the 11th hour of 11/11/2011.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem