The watchmen call out, “Who goes there, marching out of Edom, out of Bozrah in clothes dyed red? Name yourself, so splendidly dressed, advancing, bristling with power!” “It is I: I speak what is right, I, mighty to save!”
The Angel swung his sickle, harvested earth’s vintage, and heaved it into the winepress, the giant winepress of God’s wrath. The winepress was outside the City. As the vintage was trodden, blood poured from the winepress as high as a horse’s bridle, a river of blood for two hundred miles.