Fully mounted, ready to ride,
From her embrace, no one can hide.
Her Bull will make mince-meat of you,
God's faithful survive, but only a few.
How about you?
Countdown Two Thousand Eleven
By Arley Steinhour 122611
New Year's Day, is on its way, with a brand new Year to go,
If it's worse than Two thousand Eleven, I think we should forego.
The time of Tribulation, is standing on my toes,
Islam, I fear, the catalyst, that brings the world to blows.
Peace loving folks can only pray, Jesus comes real soon,
Or the space around His Alter, will surely need more room.
I've always wondered from where the Martyrs came,
Beneath the Alter crying, so many without name;
I think I know the answer, and who may be to blame,
They, who hate Christians and Jews, to their eternal shame.
The shame that wrests, from Earth, God's peace,
Seed of Abraham, but with a Spotted Fleece;
Four thousand years of hatred, filled,
Covers earth, with man's blood spilled.
Soon, at our door, a day called 'War,' no More,
With little time remaining, to fill Prophetic Score;
Two Thousand and Twelve, the world won't end,
But, play major part, we may well depend,
With flashing rockets, falling bombs, morality undone,
We find the Season, Sin and Time become, Moribund.