Swing the Sickle

The sky bleeds rust, the fields lie bare, He walks alone through burning air. A fallen crown, a wisp of light, The last angel takes his flight. He’s seen the rise, he’s watched the fall, Carved the names on Heaven’s wall. Sent to reap what man became, To judge the just, expose the shame. He rides the wind where faith runs thin, With weary eyes and steel within. Swing the sickle, the time has come, The fields are ripe, the work’s begun. He calls you out, your deeds laid bare, He swings the sickle, justice swift and fair. Feathers blackened, halo scorn, The sound of mercy long since worn. He’s neither damned nor wholly pure, He carries wrath that will endure. He reaps the souls, divides the spark, Separates the light from dark. One side cleansed, the other claimed, Both bound under the eternal flame. Swing the sickle, the harvest calls, The righteous rise, the mighty fall. He calls you out, your judgment near, He swings the sickle, no mercy here. Swing the sickle, make it clean, No more lies, no in-between. Swing the sickle, end begun, Light and dark become as one. When the blade grows dull and red, He counts the living with the dead. No trumpet sounds, no choirs cry, Just a weary angel passing by. Fields fall quiet, the deed is done, One more soul beneath the sun. The dark-winged judge, his sentence spun, He walks away, the only one...