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XXVII
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XXVII

Oh for a voice of pleading like the roar
Of many waters—that its tones might sweep
In mournful deepness on from shore to shore,
And wake the heart of mercy from its sleep!
Rouse! Rouse ye! ere the hour for right is o'er,
Ere justice shall have nought to do but weep!
Rouse, ere the bloody vintage yet be trod
To fill the wine-cup of the wrath of God!
 

“The same shall drink the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his indignation.

“And the angel thrust in his sickle into the earth, and gathered the vine of the earth, and cast it into the great winepress of the wrath of God.

“And the winepress was trodden ... and blood ran out of the winepress.”—Rev. xiv. 10, 19, 20.