Feast of silence

There is a reaper, whose name is Death And, with his sickle keen He reaps the bearded grain at a breath And the flowers that grow between (2x) "Shall I have naught that is fair?", saith he...

There is a storm coming And it is headed straight for our shore Hold on to your heart I've seen the signs before How wicked these hours These time we've seen before How we built these odes To our God...