Blood in the Valley

The sick of the fold turn their backs on the flock
 To wander the wasteland so grim.
 They pray to false idols of wood, gold and rock
 When they ought to raise voices to Him.
 The blood in the valley is Thine Lord, not mine,
 So guide my hook and hand as I reap from the vine.
 The faithful up front and the sinners behind,
 O Lord, let Thy glory shine.
 They poison the wells with their venomous lies.
 The crops in the fields turn to coal.
 Like a gangrenous limb on the body of Christ,
 Their stain brings Hell on the whole.
 The blood in the valley is Thine Lord, not mine,
 So guide my hook and hand as I reap from the vine.
 The faithful up front and the sinners behind,
 O Lord, let Thy glory shine.
 The moon of the harvest is steeped in red hue,
 And from the mouth of the valley, no sound.
 The dregs on the ground pay the Devil his due
 As he lights on that pale sunken mound.
 The blood in the valley is Thine Lord, not mine,
 So guide my hook and hand as I reap from the vine.
 The faithful up front and the sinners behind,
 O Lord, let Thy glory shine.