A storm That's Building

I

There's a storm that's building far out to sea,
And a wind is stirring that will make a sweep.
It's coming soon for you and me.
It's rising now from way down deep.
The prophetic voices cry: "Repent!"
But there will be no ear to hear
the tortured, the twisted, the holy lament,
drowned out by the sound of fear
And nothing will be as it should,
the whales will come up on the beach.
And you’d help yourself if you could,
but help remains beyond your reach.
The polar ice will melt away,
the vast Sahara, submerged again.
The patient earth, so long at bay,
will swallow up the race of men.

II

There's a storm that's building far out to sea,
and a wind is stirring that will make a sweep.
And who will speak for you and me,
what voice can wake us from our sleep?
What hand can stay the bloody knife
we use to make the sacrifice
of our every child's innocent life
upon the altar of avarice?
Where is the saint, the holy seer
to lead us from this darksome night,
to make us see, to help us hear
the radiant ringing of the holy light?
The earth has heaved a mighty sigh,
the end of time seems imminent.
And truth is twisted into a lie,
and all protective veils are rent.

III

There's a storm that's building far out to sea,
and a wind is stirring that will make a sweep.
And all eyes are blinded so none can see
that what we've sown we now will reap.
The time has come for one last stand,
and the hour is getting very late.
Time to play just one more hand,
last call, last chance to lock the gate.
The trumpet's sounded, the beast has risen,
with chains forged bright of gold and greed,
to bind us tight within the prison
we've built to house our golden creed.
From every home each and every night
the altar's laid for the holy box.
From every window seeps its dim blue light.
and the keys are turned in all the locks.

IV

There's a storm that's building far out to sea,
and a wind is stirring that will make a sweep.
But the hot wind whispers that the Living Tree
can still be found, though the climb is steep.
Upon a mountainside there rests an Ark,
within a house that has nine doors,
a shining beacon to pierce the dark,
a way for men to end all wars.
The light shines bright there for all the world,
Inviting all who have eyes to see.
A new world order has been unfurled,
and the shelter of mercy for you and me.
The mighty trumpet blast has come at last,
for all who have the ears to hear.
The old world order has all but passed,
Its death-bell clanging loud and clear.

V

There's a storm that's building that will not cease,
and a wind is stirring that will sweep all away.
It's the storm before the calm of the Most Great Peace,
the wind that ushers in a brand new day.

In the face of the storm, we gape in awe.
And in its calm center, we find Baha'.

Back to the Poetry Index