ARE NOT THE FIELDS RIPE
Quietly I wait,
setting on a cloud,
with scythe in hand,
as I see the crowd.
Too many also wait,
not choosing My gift,
of Eternal Life,
but lost as I sift.
Who will go for Me?
Will you speak My heart,
unlocking the lost souls,
from sin to depart?
Whom shall I send?
Are you dying to self?
Are you thinking of them,
sinking forever with no help?
Are not the fields ripe,
young and tender,
responding to Me,
the Majestic Sender?
Jesus
Rev. 14:14-15
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