‘O’ Ye that denied the truth, Shall not pass this gate.’

The day that the sky will be like molten brass,

And mountains will be like wool.

When mountains are scattered as dust,

By the winds sent forth,

One after another,

Which then blow violently

In the tempestuous gusts.

Then when stars

Become dim.

When heaven

Is cleft asunder,

The day, to where the

Rejectors of Truth shall

Not be able to speak,

The Day that the Trumpet

Shall be sound.

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