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 can 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.
For a Thousand years, the world won't end,
But, plays a great part, on who Man may Depend;
With, Flashing rockets, and Falling bombs, Society is undone,
That Season, Sin and Time, 'Mankind Cannot Defend.'