The fields are all white, the harvest is near

The fields are all white, the harvest is near;
The reapers all with their sharp sickles appear,
To reap down the fields and gather in barns;
While the wild plants of nature are left for to burn.

Come then, O my soul, and think on that day,
When all things in nature shall cease and decay,
The trumpet shall sound, the angels appear,
To reap down the earth, both the wheat and the tares.

But hear the sad cry, ascending the sky,
Of those in distress who have nowhere to fly;
They call for the rocks and mountains to fall
Upon their poor souls, to hide them from thrall.

'T will all be in vain; the mountains must flee,
The rocks fly like hailstones, and must no more be;
The earth it shall shake, the sea shall retire,
And this solid world shall then be all on fire.

Then, O wretched mortals, look up and 'spy
The glorious Redeemer descending the sky,
On chariots of fire; to earth he is bound,
With guards of bright angels attending him down.

But hear the kind Judge, that great day alarms,
First gather my children all into my arms,
That seven last plagues be poured out on those
Who 've blasphemed my name and my saints have opposed.