The songs of the birds are those of God's angles,
The babbling brook running down the hill, is the existence of life.
Listen.
They are trying to tell us something.
The poison rain splashes through the doorway,
The rumbling of the chainsaws are those of the Devil's disciples,
The laying of the cement, cutting off the existence of life.
Overcome it.
For it is trying to overcome you.
As I lay here, looking at the Master's work,
I see it slipping away.
This beauty was made for us.
And now we are bent on destroying it.
Why?
And for what?
Why are we willing to cut off the existence of life?
These changes are deadly,
And are approaching annihilation of God's work,
Slipping from his hands is this world,
Falling into the Devilish desires,
Let us reach up and support the weakening hands of the Master,
For if not,
The masterful work will be lost.