Zion said, ‘God has deserted me. My Master forgot about me.’
Does a woman forget the baby from the tenderness of her womb? The son from her bosom? Even they could forget, but I won’t forget you.
Look: I’ve carved you into the flesh of my hands. Your walls stand forever in my sight.
Your sons are rushing to you to build you back up. Your attackers, your destroyers flee.
Lift up your eyes and look around you; see: they’re all assembled; they have come to you; as I live, declares God, you’ll adorn yourself with all of them like fine clothing, bind them to yourself the way a new bride does:
Yes, your parched deserts and your wastelands, your ravaged territory will now be stuffed full of settlers — yes, and the ones who devoured you will be far away.
They’ll whisper in your ears yet, the children of your grief and loss: ‘this place is too cramped for me — make more room for me to settle in!’
And you’ll say in your heart: ‘who gave me these children? When I was filled with grief, barren and tossed aside? These — who made them grow? Look: I was abandoned, all alone. How are they here?’