The waves of God's indignation are roaring from the heaven of heavens. The voice of the crier is telling the world to listen to the harp playing, listen to the trumpet sounding, listen to the last train passing by sounding its horn.
The passengers on board are locked in for their own safety, yet they perish around the next curve, falling into the ocean's deep. Some were asleep, and knew not that death was sitting next to them.
What ails the world? For it is surely sick; sick with sin, sick with the noxious smell of rebellion permeating their pores, filling the rooms of their dwelling places with the fragrance of their own impending demise.
Walking over there in the sunlight of God's Word, resting in the hollow of His hand is the town crier barking out loudly for the whole world to hear, barking out the destinies yet to unfold.
Is anyone listening? Has anyone altered their ways, and repented whole heartedly before a merciful God? No, you will wait until it's too late and the waters of doom are flowing over your head, then you will cry out to me, but I will not hear you, nor will I save you from your obstinate hearts; hearts sullied by the weight of sin.
I have beckoned to you from my love's embrace. I have called to you from my wounded heart. I have sung my song of longsuffering to you decade after decade, but you would not even pause to listen, so in a hurry you were, to plant the seeds in the ground of your utter destruction, that you failed to see the partial view I showed to you.