A personal apocalypse

He came to every doorstep
Crossed each threshold in is turn
In his wake was void and terror
And a ground like burnished stone

So we knew who was to end us
Had our personal chauffeur
When the end came to our people
It was passed to each in turn

Was it kind to come so gently
So that each could see his face
Every town, village, and city
Graced by bringer of malaise