Death of the False Prophet

It doesn't twist, it spins.
It ends where it begins
A mighty, rushing wind
That blows away the sin.

Look on and be afraid,
You who His temples raid,
The wicked be dismayed,
Into the dust be laid.

Be buried in the ground,
Hear the whistle sound,
A whirlwind all around,
No shelter for you found.

It blows down every wall,
And as Jericho falls,
Upon your wicked calls,
His justice will not stall.

Look up and see your doom
That sweeps with Heaven's broom
Your filth from every room
And seals you in the tomb.

Where deathly power holds
Your rotting flesh in cold
Dank darkness, as your mold
Dissolves as fate foretold.

Look on, you thief of Kent,
From you the Spirit went.
Your fingers, crooked bent.
Your final hour is spent.

Look now upon His face,
Who sits on Throne of Grace,
Kneel below His dais
As judgment on you lays.

The kissed joy, now it flies,
From you who Him denies.
The LORD won't hear your cries
When gassho prophet dies.