The Harvest of Moloch: A Story of to-Day

Excerpt from The Harvest of Moloch: A Story of to-Day

The altar of the god is piled high with sheaves, so high that as the sun moves from east to west, the shadow of it is as the shadow of the Great Pyramid falling black athwart the land. The sheaves are the forfeit lives of men and women, and the people on whom the shadow of the great altar falls wring their hands and cry, How long, 0 Lord, how long? For there is no spring nor summer but only autumn and reaping-time in the age of Moloch. All year long the sickles flash and sweep, and the sheaves fall, and the moaning of the victims as they are laid on the altar is grievous and fills the land with gloom. For the blood drips piteously, and the sobbing of the little children ceases not day nor night, while the people cry, Where is God? Oh! Where is God that He comes not to deliver us from the cruel harvesting of Moloch?

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