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The Vision Isaiah Saw


The vision of Isaiah son of Amoz, which he saw about Judah and Jerusalem in the days when Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah were kings of Judah  

Hear, heavens; earth, lend your ears:
God makes his Proclamation.
‘I made my sons grow, raised them up, and they — they revolted against me.  

An ox knows his herdsman; a donkey knows his master’s paddock — Israel doesn’t know. My people don’t understand.  

Oh, doom! Sinful nation, population heavy with corruption, offspring of the evil ones, destroyer sons . . . They abandoned God. They disdained Israel’s Sacred One. Their backs are turned.  

To what end? You still get pummeled; again and again you mutiny. Your whole head is in a fever; your whole heart is faint.  

From pad of heel to crown of head, the whole structure is unsound: gashes and bruises and wounds oozing. They’re not staunched, not bandaged, not eased with oil.  

Your land — laid waste. Your cities — burned in fire. Your soil and substance — right in front of you there are invaders eating it, and it’s laid waste – like a ruin toppled by invaders.  

But Zion's daughter is left behind: like a tent in a vineyard, like a shack in a patch of cucumbers, like a city under siege.  

If the God of Legions hadn’t left stragglers for us – just a few – we would be like Sodom; we would look like Gomorrah.  

Hear God’s Proclamation, you elites of Sodom. Lend your ears to our god’s teaching, people of Gomorrah.  

What good are all your sacrifices to me?’ says God. ‘I’m stuffed full. Offerings of goats; milk from fat cows; bull’s blood; sheep and rams: I take no pleasure in them.  

When you come to show yourselves before me — who asked for that from you? To trample my courtyards?  

No more: stop bringing worthless gifts, sweet-smelling incense . . . it’s vile to me. New moons and sabbaths, assemblies called together: I can’t bear corruption and pious congregations.

Your new moons and your meeting days: my soul deplores them; they’re a heavy load on me and I’m tired of carrying it.  

So when you stretch out your palms I’ll hide my eyes from you. Even when you multiply your prayers, you’ll get no audience from me. Your hands are full of blood.  

Wash. Get pure. Get the evil of the things you do out of my sight. Let go of evil.  

Learn how to make good. Hunt after justice. Give relief to victims and justice to orphans. Plead the widow’s case.  

Come here,’ says God; ‘let’s talk this out together. If your sins are like scarlet, they’ll turn white like snow. If they flush like crimson, they’ll be like wool.  

If you’re content to listen, the goodness of the earth will be your food.  

But if you refuse in defiance, then you will be food for the sword. God’s mouth makes this Proclamation.  

How did she whore herself out, this city stronghold secure in belief? She was full of justice; righteousness used to spend nights in her. But now killers do.  

Your silver’s become trash; your wine’s diluted with water.  

Your leaders are mutinous. Accomplices to thieves – all of them relishing bribes, hunting out graft. They give no justice to orphans; the widow’s plea never reaches them.  

And so the Master, God of Legions, Israel’s Juggernaut, declares: ‘Oh, I’ll get relief from the persecution pressing on me, get revenge on my enemies.

I’ll put my hand back on you, and like lye I’ll scour your filth away, extract all your impurities.

I’ll put your judges back, like at the beginning, and your mentors, like at the start. After that they’ll call you city of righteousness, stronghold secure in belief.  

Zion will be ransomed in justice, her homecomers in righteousness.  

But the shattering of the rebels and of the sinners is one and the same: those who desert God will be eaten alive.  

The brawny trunks you lusted after will put them to shame in the end. The gardens you chose will bring you reproach,  

Because you’ll be like a tree trunk with withering leaves; like a garden with no water.  

The powerful are for kindling now, and the things they do become sparks. They’re engulfed, both of them together, with no one to extinguish the flame.  


What Isaiah, son of Amoz, Saw Proclaimed about Judah and Jerusalem.

It happens in the final days:
The mountain of God’s house will be established at the head of the mountains, lifted above the hills.
The nations will all come flooding to it.

Then peoples come en masse.
They say, ‘come, and we’ll ascend to God’s mountain, to the house of Jacob’s god –
He’ll teach us his ways and we’ll walk on his paths.
Because what he teaches will emanate from Zion,
and God’s proclamation from Jerusalem.

And he gives justice to the nations, and adjudicates between the many peoples;
They hammer out their swords into blades for their ploughs, and their spears into pruning hooks.
No nation will wield a sword against another, and from then on they won’t teach the art of war.

House of Jacob! Come walk; let’s walk in the light of God.

Because you cast away your people, Jacob's house: they’re filled with the East, with fortune-tellers, like the Philistines. They simper over foreign children.

And their territory is packed full of silver and gold – there’s no end to their treasure troves.
And their territory is packed full of horses – there’s no end to their riding gear.

And their territory is packed full of empty gods. They’re prostrating themselves to things their own hands made – things their fingers did.

Men grovel in the dirt; humanity degrades itself – you shall not bear with them.

Come squeeze into this crevice – get hidden in the dust; keep from facing the terror of God and his awful magnificence.

Men’s arrogant eyes will be cast down; the height of humanity will grovel; then God is set apart in exaltation
On That Day.

Yes: there’s a Day that belongs to the God of Legions, over every self-important and high-minded thing, and over everything exalted: it will be cast down.

And over every cedar from Lebanon, lofty and uplifted,
And over every oak from Bashan.

And over all exalted mountains,
And over all uplifted hills.

And over every towering citadel,
And over every fortressed wall.

And over all the fleets from Tarshish.
And over all the sumptuous artwork.

Men’s arrogance will grovel in the dirt; the height of humanity will be degraded; then God is set apart in exaltation
On That Day.

He will obliterate every one of the empty gods.

And they’ll go into cliffside hollows, into holes they claw in the dust, to keep from facing the terror of God and his awful magnificence, when he stands to rock Earth to its core.

On That Day,
Men will toss their empty gods of silver, their empty gods of gold – which they made for themselves, to grovel in front of – toss them aside to the burrowing rodents and bats,

To go into the cut cliffside, the fissures and crags of the rock. To keep from facing the terror of God and his awful magnificence, when he stands to rock Earth to its core.

Cut yourselves off from men. Their life is exhaled from their nostrils; on what grounds should they be given any thought?


Yes – Look: see the Master, God with his Legions, taking Jerusalem’s sustenance away, taking the staff Judah leans on. All the sustenance of bread and all the sustenance of water.

Taking away the war hero, fighting man, judge and prophet, fortune teller and elder statesman,

Captain of squadrons, man of high rank, mentor, wise man, conjurer, silver-tongued scholar.

I give them boys for rulers, and infants will be sovereign over them.

And then the people tyrannise each other, man against man and neighbor against neighbor. Children will disdain their elders, and lowlifes disdain the men of consequence.

To the point that a man will grab hold of his brother in their father’s house: ‘The mantle is yours — you be our captain, with this crisis on your hands.’

He’ll take up an oath On That Day, saying, ‘I won’t be the one to patch this up: there’s no bread in my house, and no mantle. You won’t appoint me the people’s captain.’

Because Jerusalem has collapsed and Judah is fallen: their tongues and the things they do are against God, to embitter the eyes of his majesty.

The looks on their faces bear witness against them. Their sin! Like Sodom they tell all about it. They don’t keep it hidden. Oh their souls, their souls! They’ve lavished evil upon themselves.

Say this for the righteous: that it is good. That the fruit of the things they do will be their food.

Doom, oh, for the guilty man, this evil: what his own hand accomplishes is what will be done to him.

My people! Infants tyrannise them, and women lord it over them. My people, your guides lead you astray; they destroy the paths you travel on.

God rises to argue his case, then stands to bring judgment upon the nations.

God will advance in justice upon the elder statesmen of his people, and their leaders. ‘You were the ones who devoured the vineyard; the plunder from the poor is in your houses.

What do you get out of beating down my people, and grinding down the faces of the poor?’ declares my Master, the God of Legions,

And God says, ‘because of how Zion's daughters put on airs and strut around with necks outstretched, batting their eyes, sashaying as they go with bangles jangling on their feet,

The Master will disfigure their scalps, these daughters of Zion, and God will lay their cavities bare.

On That Day my Master will sweep away the elegance of the bangles, and the ribbons in their hair, and the gems around their necks,

The chokers and the bracelets and the veils,

The wigs and the anklets and the girdles, the corsets and the charm-stones,

The rings and nose-piercings,

The changes of outfit, and the cloaks, and the capes, and the purses,

And the pocket mirrors, and the linen, and the turbans, and the gauze.

Then it happens: where there were perfumed exhalations a stench will arise,
and a gash where there was a girdle,
and bald heads where there was coiffed hair,
and burlap garments where there was fine attire.
Where there was beauty, burn wounds.

Your grown men will fall by the sword, and your war heroes will fall in battle.

Then her gates will wail and weep. Emptied, she'll sit on the earth.


And seven women will clutch at one man
On That Day.
They'll tell him, ‘we’ll eat our own food. We’ll wear our own clothes. Just let us be called by your name! Take away our disgrace!’

On That Day
The Branch of God will unfurl into majesty and splendour
And the fruit of the Earth into excellence and beauty,
For Israel's refugees.

Then it happens: the survivors in Zion,
And the ones still left in Jerusalem,
Will be spoken of as sacred,
Every one of them inscribed into life in Jerusalem,

When my Master scrubs away the grime from Zion's daughters
And the blood from Jerusalem —
Scours it away from her core
With a breath of justice,
With a burning spirit.

Then God creates —
Over the whole structure of Mount Zion,
Over the congregations called together —
Cloud in the daylight, and smoke,
And the brilliance of fire: a flare in the night,
Yes: a canopy above all majesty.

And for shade from the scorching heat in the daylight
There will be a tent:
A place to take shelter and hide
From the downpour,
From the rain.


Let me sing to the one I love a song of him I love, about his vineyard.

The one I love had a vineyard, on the crest of a hill with rich soil.

Now, he fenced it off, and cleared it of stones, and sowed it with select varietals, and built a tower inside it.
Then he hollowed out a winepress in it too, and waited with high hopes for succulent grapes. But it produced rotted berries.

And now, any citizen of Jerusalem or man of Judah — judge between me and my vineyard.

What else was there to do to my vineyard that I didn’t do? Why, when I had high hopes for succulent grapes, should it produce rotted berries?

And now let me tell you what I’ll do to my vineyard: have its hedge removed, so it gets devoured. Smash its wall, so it gets trampled on.

I’m going to lay waste to it: it won’t be weeded or trimmed; thorns and choke-weed will sprout up; I’ll give orders to the clouds to rain no rain upon it.

Because the vineyard of God with his Legions is the household of Israel, and the man of Judah is the crop of his delight. He had high hopes for virtue, but look: see the violence. High hopes for honour, but listen: hear the screams.

Doom, oh, for the people who annex one house to another: they connect field to field until there’s no more space. Until you have to live in isolation in the middle of your own land.

In my ears, the God of Legions: ‘just see if countless houses don’t become wastelands — big ones and good ones, with no one to live in them.

Yes, ten acres of vineyard will produce just one vat of wine; ten bushels of seed will produce just one bushel of grain.

Oh doom for the people who wake up at dawn to hunt for hard liquor; who keep it up until night falls and wine makes them burn.

There are strings and lyres; there are tambourines and pipes; there’s wine at their drinking parties — it’s only God’s miracles they don’t attend to. It’s the things he does with his hands they don’t see.

That’s why my people are driven into captivity: for lack of knowledge. Their noblemen go hungry, and their commoners are parched with thirst.

That’s why the Grave bloats herself and her maw gapes limitlessly open. And down they sink into her, with all their glamour, and their ruckus, and their crowds and giddy celebrants.

Men grovel in the dirt; humanity degrades itself, and the eyes of the arrogant are brought low,

But he is exalted: God with his Legions in justice. The one sacred god will be held sacred in righteousness.

Then lambs will graze the way they do, and nomads will feed on wastelands that had belonged to fatcats.

Doom, yes, for the people that drag corruption along behind them with straps of inanity, and sin like a cart with a rope.

The people who say, ‘let him hurry it up then, and fast-track the work he’s doing. That way we’ll see, and the counsel of Israel’s sacred one will be close — will arrive, and we’ll know it.’

Doom for the people who say evil is good and good evil. Who put the deep dark in place of the light and the light in place of the deep dark. Who put bitter in place of sweet, and sweet in place of bitter.

Doom for the people who are wise in their own eyes, and discerning in their own sight.

Doom for those heroes of wine drinking — the mighty mixers of liquor.

The people who justify evil in return for bribes: they strip the righteous man of his righteousness.

That’s why, like a tongue of flame eats up dry wheat, and a blaze depletes the grass,
Their roots will become like rotten filth, and their blossom will dissipate like dust: they reject what God with his Legions teaches, what Israel’s Sacred One says — they make a mockery of it.

That’s why God’s blazing anger seethes against his people; he’s reaching out his hand towards them, and he’ll smite them so the mountains quake — so their corpses lie like garbage in the middle of the road. In all this his anger doesn’t turn back, and his hand still reaches out.

But he raises a flag for the nations from far away, and whistles for them from the ends of the earth — and look: they rush ahead; they’ll be coming fast.

No fatigue, no stumbling among them: they won’t doze, won’t sleep; their loincloths never come undone, and the strap on their sandal never snaps.

Their arrows are whetted and all their bows pulled taught; you’d think their horses’ hooves were rock, and their wheels roll like a hurricane.

The roar they make is like a lion’s. They’ll snarl like wild cubs, roaring and pouncing on their prey: they’ll carry it off safe and sound, with no one to rescue it.

Then they’ll roar at them On That Day, like the ocean’s roar. Survey the earth, see: pitch black dark. Grief. The light goes black on the horizon.


It was the year King Uzziah died when I saw my Master. He was sitting on his throne: exalted and lifted on high, his mantle folds filling the temple,

The Burning Ones stationed above him — six wings! Six wings on each one. With two they were covering their faces. With two they were covering their feet. With two they were flying.

And they called out, one to another, and said:
The whole earth is filled with his majesty.’

The doorframe was rocked with the voice of them, calling, and the building was filled with smoke.

I wailed, ‘oh, I am dismantled. I, a man of filthy lips within a filthy-lipped nation: my eyes see the King, the God of Legions.’

But then one of the Burning Ones flew to me. In his hand, an ember: he picked it up with tongs from off the altar.

He touched it to my mouth and said, ‘Look: this touches your lips, and takes away your corruption; your sin is scoured away.’

And I heard the voice of my Master. Saying, ‘Whom will I send? Who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Look: here I am. Send me.’

And He said, ‘go. You shall say to this nation, “listen! Oh you, listen, but comprehend nothing. See! Oh you, see, but never understand.”

‘Fatten these people’s hearts. Weigh down their ears; shut their eyes. Or else they would see with their eyes, and with their ears, listen, and understand in their hearts, and turn, and find healing.’

And I said, ‘Master, for how long?’ And he said, ‘until the cities are ravaged, emptied of anyone living there, houses emptied of human life, and the earth lifeless, desolate.

‘And God will drive humanity miles away, and the deserted territory will yawn wide in the heart of the Earth.

‘And if there’s still a tenth left, then that again will be devoured in flame — like a terebinth tree, like an oak. When they are toppled, their stump remains. Their stump is the sacred seed.’


It happened in the days of Ahaz son of Jotham son of Uzziah, King of Judah: up came Rezin, King of Aram, and Pekah son of Remaliah, king of Israel, to wage war against Jerusalem – but they couldn’t win.

Word reached David's house: they were told, ‘Aram has joined forces with Ephraim.’ Then Ahaz's heart and his people’s heart were rattled, as tree branches in the woods rattle at the breath of the wind.

But God said to Isaiah, ‘go out to meet Ahaz, you and your son Shear-Jashub, at the far end of the waterway from the Upper Pool, on the highway to the Fuller’s Field.

And say to him, “careful now, still your mind, don’t be afraid. Don’t let your heart go limp at the thought of these two lumps of smoldering charcoal — at the thought of the seething rage of Rezin and Aram and Remaliah's son

Because Aram plotted evil against you, along with Ephraim and Remaliah's son, saying,

‘let’s go up to Judah and assault it, and breach its wall; let’s claim it for our own, and make Tabeel's son king at its city centre.’

So says my Master, God: ‘it won’t stand. It won’t happen.

Aram’s head is Damascus, and Damascus’ head is Rezin. And by sixty-five years from now the nation of Ephraim will be beaten out of existence.

And Ephraim’s head is Samaria, and Samaria’s head is the son of Remaliah. If your belief isn’t secure, then neither are you.’”’

And God proclaimed still more to Ahaz. He said,

‘Ask for a sign from God, your own god — from the pits of the Grave or the lofty heights.’

But Ahaz said, ‘I won’t ask. No, I won’t put God to the test.’

Then Isaiah said, ‘now listen, house of David: is it so minor a thing for you to run men ragged, that you’re going to tire out your god too?

Since that’s so: my Master will give you a sign himself. Look: see a maiden girl conceiving, and bringing forth a son, and calling him by the name GOD-WITH-US.

Curds and honey will be his food when he knows to reject evil and choose good.

Yes, even before the boy knows to reject evil, and choose good, that land — with its two kings who so fill you with horror — will be abandoned.

Upon you, and your people, and your fathers’ house, God will make days come that never came before, not since the day that Ephraim left Judah.

And it happens On That Day: God will whistle for the gadflies at the farthest banks of Egypt’s rivers, and the drone bees in Assyria’s land.

And they’ll swarm, all of them, into desolate valleys and gashes in the rock, and over all the brambles and all the pasture.

On That Day my Master’s going to take a razor hired from across the river — the king of Assyria — and shave your head, your crotch, your toes, even your beard too.

And it happens On That Day: a man will nourish a calf and two sheep.

And it happens: from all the milk they make he’ll eat curds, so curds and honey will be food for everyone still left in the heart of the land.

And it happens On That Day: every place where a thousand grapevines once went for a thousand silver coins, will be good for nothing but thorns and choke-weed.

People will go there carrying bows and arrows, because the whole land will be thorns and choke-weed.

And as for all the mountains furrowed deep with pickaxes: you won’t go there for fear of thorns and choke-weed. They’ll be where you send your oxen and let livestock trample.


Then God spoke to me: ‘get yourself a massive slab, and chisel onto it in words everyone can read words everyone can read — FOR SWIFT-TO-PLUNDER-SPRINT-AT-PREY.

And I’ll call witnesses to testify, secure ones I can trust: Uriah the priest, and Zechariah, Jeberechiah’s son.

I approached the prophetess, and she conceived, and gave birth to a son. God spoke to me: ‘call him by the name Swift-to-Plunder-Sprint-at-Prey.

Because, before the boy knows how to call out ‘father’ and ‘mother,’ the might of Damascus and the plunder of Samaria will be carried off before Assyria’s king.

And again God proclaimed still more to me. He said,

‘Because this nation rejected Shiloah’s water with its gentle current, because they’re delighted with Rezin and the son of Remaliah,

Because of that, look: here is the Master, making waters rise against them from the river. Mighty teeming waters: Assyria’s king and all his majesty. He rises along all his channels and comes up over all his banks.

He washes over Judah. He overflows right up to neck-height, and the unfurling of his wings expands to fill the wideness of your land, God-With-Us.

Scream, nations, and be shattered. Lend your ears, everyone from distant regions of the Earth: strap on your battle gear and be shattered. Strap it on and be shattered.

Plan your plans: they’ll come to nothing. Proclaim your proclamations: they won’t stand, because of God with Us.

Because this is how God spoke to me — like his hand was gripping me, keeping me from walking on this people’s path, and saying:

‘Don’t say it’s treason whenever this nation says something’s treason. Don’t fear what they fear — don’t let it shake you.

The God of Legions is the one you shall hold sacred. He’s what you shall fear; he’s what shall shake you.

He’s what you’ve got for a sacred place, but also for a stone that trips them up, and for a rock that buckles their knees, the two houses of Israel — a snare and a trap for those living in Jerusalem.

Plenty of people among them will trip and fall, and be broken, and captured, and snared.

Stash the testimony away. Seal up what God teaches among those who’ve learned from me:

I hold out for God, the one hiding his face from Jacob's house. I put my high hopes in him.

Here I am, and the children God gave me, as signs and omens in Israel from God with his Legions who dwells on Mount Zion.

Now when they say to you, ‘go consult the psychics and mediums, the ones that mutter and chant under their breath’ — shouldn’t a nation consult its God? Or should they consult the dead on behalf of the living?

As for what’s taught and what’s testified: if what they say isn’t like this Proclamation, then it sheds no daylight.

Harrowed, starved, they'll journey across the land. It happens: in their starvation they'll fume with anger, curse their king and their god, and turn to face upwards,

Or stare at the ground. See: oppression. And pitch black, fearsome darkness — there they are, shoved out into the gloom.

Still, no darkness for her in her miseries. In time gone by he subjected the land of Zebulun to scorn, and the land of Naphtali. He brought heavier burdens on her, by way of the ocean over the Jordan, Galilee of other nations.


The people walking in the pitch black dark saw light, vast
Light: they were living on Earth under death’s shadow when radiance burst over them.

You made our population grow;
made their joy vast.
The way they rejoiced in your sight was like the joy at harvest-time,
like the celebrations when they pass out the plunder from battle.

Because the yoke of his burden and the bar across his shoulder,
the club in the hands that were beating him down —
You shattered them, like back in Midian.

Because every boot stampeding on shaken ground,
every uniform soaked in blood,
Will be for burning now —
fuel for the fire.

Because a baby is delivered to us, a son given, and the rule of law is on his shoulder.
He is called by the name:

For expanding the rule of law,
For peace without end,
On David’s throne and in his kingdom,
To ground it and uphold it in justice and in righteousness from now until eternity,
The fierce desire of God with his Legions is doing this.

My Master sent a Proclamation upon Jacob. It fell upon Israel.

And the people will know, all of them, Ephraim and everyone living in Samaria, with their arrogant and swelling hearts, who say,

‘The baked bricks have fallen, but we’ll rebuild with carved stone. The sycamores have been hewn down, but we’ll replace them with cedars.’

So God raised up Rezin’s oppressors above him, and goaded his enemies on.

Arameans in front, and Philistines behind: they eat Israel by the mouthful. In all this his anger doesn’t turn back, and his hand still reaches out.

And the people don’t turn to the one who’s battering them. And they don’t seek out the God of Legions.

God cuts the head from off of Israel, and the tail too — the palm frond and the bulrush, in one day.

Elders and dignified men: these are the head. Prophets teaching lies: these are the tail.

The ones guiding this nation are the ones leading it astray, and the ones being guided are the ones being devoured.

That’s why my Master takes no joy in their finest men. He has no room in his heart for their orphans and widows, because they’re profane and rotten, all of them; every one of their mouths proclaims gibberish. In all this his anger doesn’t turn back, and his hand still reaches out.

Because depravity blazes like a devouring flame. It eats the thorns and choke-weed, ignites the close-packed forest — smoke coils high.

In the fury of God with his Legions the earth is charred black, and the people are food for the flame. No man shows his brother clemency.

On the right they’re tearing off hunks in their hand, ravenous. On the left they’re eating but they can’t get enough. Each man is eating the flesh of his own arm.

Manasseh eats Ephraim and Ephraim eats Manasseh. They’re united against Judah.


Oh, declaimers of worthless decrees, writers of burdensome writing, oh,

(Which turn the needy away from arbitration and strip justice away from the poor among my people — so widows are their plunder, and they rob orphans blind),

What will you do to meet the day of reckoning and the devastation coming from far away? To whom will you run for help, and where will you leave all that abundance of yours?

Nothing left for you but humiliation among the subjugated, and downfall among the slaughtered. In all this his anger doesn’t turn back, and his hand still reaches out.

Oh, Assyria, oh, sceptre of my fury — in their hand is the club of my rage.

It’s a profane nation I’m sending him against: against the people of my wrath I give him his orders — to plunder for plunder and prey upon prey. To squash them underfoot like mud on the roadside.

But he's not picturing it that way; and that’s not how his heart plans it: it’s demolition that’s on his heart, to mow down more than a few nations.

Yes, he's saying, ‘aren’t my commanders all kings?

Isn’t Calno just like Carchemish? And Hamath like Arpad? Samaria like Damascus?

Just as my hand found its way to the kingdoms of the empty gods — there were more statues of them there than in all Jerusalem and Samaria

Just as I did to Samaria and their empty gods, won’t I do the same to Jerusalem and her icons?’

And it happens as my Master brings an end to everything he’s doing on Mount Zion, and in Jerusalem: ‘now I bring a reckoning upon Assyria’s king for the over-swollen fruit that his arrogant heart bears, and for the high and haughty look in his eyes.

Because he said: ‘in the might of my hand I do it, and in my wisdom, because I understand — I remove the boundaries between nations, looting their treasuries, subduing the people living there, like a mighty bull.

My hand finds its way to the wealth of vigorous nations as to a bird’s nest: like arms sweeping up eggs left defenseless, so am I, sweeping up the whole earth in my arms, and there’s not so much as a wing fluttering; not a peep from one opened mouth.

Does an axe exalt itself over the one who wields it? Does a saw lift itself up above the one who brandishes it? Like a sceptre brandishing the one who picks it up, or a club lifting someone made of more than wood.

And so the Master, God of Legions, will send emaciation on his fatcats, and instead of his abundant majesty he’ll kindle kindling like a kindled flame.

And it happens: the light of Israel becomes fire; her Sacred One becomes a flame, and it devours. It eats up its thorns and choke-weed in one day.

It will engulf, too, the whole abundant thickness of its forests and cornfields from inside out, from soul to skin: like a disease that devours the diseased.

Then there’ll be a countable number of trees still left in the forest — a schoolboy could tally them up.

It happens On That Day: those stragglers still left in Israel and the refugees of Jacob's house won’t lean on the one who beats them anymore: they’ll lean on God, Israel’s Sacred One, secure in truth.

A few stragglers will come back. Jacob’s stragglers will come back to their own god, their Hero God.

Yes. Even if your people, Israel, are like sand by the ocean, only a few will still be left to come back there. This obliteration is set in stone — a righteous deluge.

It’s all settled and set in stone: my Master, God of Legions, will do it in the core of the whole Earth.

Therefore so says my Master, God of Legions: ‘Don’t be afraid of Assyria — people of mine, living on Zion: when he beats you with a club and brandishes his sceptre over you, the way Egypt did,

Then just a little moment longer and the indignation against you will be all spent. Then my fury will turn to demolishing them.

Then God of Legions rears up against them with a whip, as in the beating he gave Midian on Oreb’s rock. And his sceptre will be over the sea: he’ll lift it up the way Egypt did.

It happens On That Day: his burden will be removed from off your shoulder, and his yoke from off your neck: the yoke is torn apart by the strain of your girth.

He comes to Aiath; he passes through Migron; in Michmas he stores away his packs.

They pass across the pass: ‘there’s lodging for us at Geba.’ Ramah quakes with fear and Gibeath of Shaul scurries away.

Call out and holler, daughter of Gallim. Laish — listen! Alas for Anathoth.

Madmenah’s men are made nomads, and everyone living in Gebim is on the run.

While it’s still day he’ll take his stand in Nob, shake his fist at the mountain, Zion’s daughter, Jerusalem’s hillside.

Look: see the Master, God of Legions, hacking splendid foliage off the treetops with a savage strength. See the ones that stand tall hewn down. See their proud height brought low.

Then he slices through the forest thickets with an axe. At a champion’s hands, Lebanon will fall.


Then a shoot emerges from Jesse's Stump – a twig from his roots.

And above him will hover the spirit of God:
The spirit of wisdom and inspired understanding;
The mentor's spirit; the hero’s breath;
The spirit of knowledge; the fear of God.

He’ll relish the fear of God.
He won’t judge by what his eyes see,
Or make verdicts based on what his ears hear.

No, he’ll judge the needy in righteousness;
He’ll give fair verdicts to those impoverished on Earth.
He’ll pound the earth with a sceptre, his mouth,
And with breath from his lips he’ll bring death to the wicked.

Then it happens: righteousness becomes his loincloth,
And the cloth of trust is wrapped secure around his waist.

The wolf and the lamb will be fellow travelers;
The leopard and the goat will lie side by side;
The calf and the young lion and the fat-fed ox will be together,
With a little boy leading them on.

The wild donkey and the bear will share pasture —
Their young will nestle together,
And the lion will eat hay like the ox.

A tender child will amuse himself by the cobra’s lair,
And a boy in the flower of youth will reach his hands into the adder’s burrow.

They’ll do no wrong or violence to one another,
All over my Sacred Mountain,
Because Earth will be filled with the knowledge of God,
Like the waters that that engulf the ocean floor.

And it happens On That Day: there is the Root of Jesse, standing firm as a flag for all peoples to see.
Other nations will come to seek him out, and his refuge will be majestic.

And it happens On That Day: my Master lifts his hand again a second time,
Fierce with desire to claim the survivors of his people, the stragglers still left —
From Assyria and from Egypt, from Pathros, from Kush, from Elam, from Shinar, from Hamath, from the islands in the ocean.

Then he lifts up a flag for the nations,
And gathers up Israel’s outcasts,
And assembles Judah’s scattered survivors
From the four furthest wingtips of the Earth.

Then Ephraim’s fierce grudge is clean gone,
And Judah’s oppressors will be cut down.
Ephraim will bear no grudge against Judah,
And Judah won’t oppress Ephraim.

Instead they’ll soar to the sea on the shoulders of Philistines
As one united front they’ll prey upon the sons of the East, sending forth their hands onto Edom and Moab, while the sons of Ammon listen to their commands.

Then God rips out the tongue from Egypt’s ocean, and with an exhalation of his mighty spirit he shakes his fist over its river —
He pounds its seven channels and lets people journey over it with dry shoes.

And there is a route forward for the survivors of his people, the stragglers still left, out of Assyria,
Just like there was for Israel on the day they rose up out of Egypt’s land.


Then you'll speak out, On That Day:
‘I praise you, God, with hands outstretched.
You burned with rage against me;
Your rage has turned aside,
And you soothe me.

Look: this god is my deliverance —
I will trust;
I won’t fear,
For my strength and my music is God, the GOD,
And for me he is deliverance.

Then you’ll draw water in jubilation
From the wellsprings of deliverance.

Then you’ll all speak out, On That Day:
‘Give praise to God, with hands outstretched.
Call on his name;
Make every nation know the things he does;
Make everyone remember:
His name is lifted high.

Make music for God, because he does high and mighty things.
This is made known over all the Earth.

Burst into whooping and cheers of triumph, you who live on Zion,
Because of him, great in your midst — Israel’s Sacred One.


Babylon's burden, which Isaiah son of Amoz Saw.

Lift up a flag on the mountain peak. Raise your voice; wave your hand for them, so they’ll come to the noblemen’s gates.

I gave my orders to the ones I made sacred. I even called my war heroes to come to my rage, the ones who take pride in my magnificence.

A voice of uproar on the mountains! A sound like a massive crowd, a fearsome voice of chaos from kingdoms of nations. They’re gathered together — this is God of Legions enlisting a legion for war,

Coming from the farthest regions of earth, from the ends of the heavens — God and the instruments of his fury, to crush the whole earth.

Wail, because of God’s Day drawing near: it’s coming like annihilation from the Almighty.

And so all hands will go limp, and every heart of every man will go slack.

Then they’ll be shaken: suffocation and constriction will pull tight around them, and contractions like a woman giving birth. Each one of them will stare in awe at his fellow man — their faces will flare up like lamplight.

See God’s Day coming, cruel in its fury and its seething rage, to bring earth to its destruction. He will exterminate the sinners from among us.

Yes, the stars of heaven in their constellations won’t radiate their light. The sun will be pitch black as it emerges, and the moon won’t pour forth its light.

I bring a reckoning of evil upon the cosmos, and corruption upon the wicked; I put a stop to the arrogance of self-satisfied men, and I topple the high grandeur of fearsome tyrants.

I’ll make humanity scarcer than pure gold; human bodies will be rarer than golden ore from Ophir.

And so I’ll make the heavens quake, and Earth will be knocked out of its place, in the fury of God with his Legions on the Day of his burning rage.

And it happens: like a hunted deer, or like a sheep with no one to corral it, every man will turn to his own people. Every man will go running to his own territory.

Everyone who can be found will be gored; everyone who can be snatched up will fall by the sword.

And their little babies will be torn to pieces while they watch; their houses will be looted; their wives will be raped.

Look who I’m rousing against them: the Medes, who’ll take no account of silver and won’t be appeased by gold.

Archers will tear their young boys to pieces; they’ll have no tenderness in their heart for the tender fruit of the womb, no mercy in their eyes for any mother’s son.

And Babylon, jewel of kingdoms, resplendent pride of the Chaldeans — it’ll be like when God turned the tables on Sodom and Gomorrah.

It will never be lived in again, or slept in from generation to generation. No Arab will pitch his tent there, and shepherds won’t settle their flocks there.

Then desert wildlings settle there instead, and howling beasts wander in to fill their houses — owls’ broods will sleep in their houses, and goats will caper there.

Then island creatures call to one another through their desolate hallways, and things with tentacles in their pleasure palaces. The moment is drawing right up close. The days will not be delayed.


Yes, God will open his heart in mercy to Jacob, will still choose Israel, and give them guidance back to their own soil. And outsiders will be joined onto them, grafted onto Jacob's household.

Then the people will take them in, bring them to the place that belongs to them, and the house of Israel will incorporate them into God’s fatherland as servants and handmaidens — they’ll take their captors captive and dominate the ones who beat them down.

And it happens On the Day God lets you find release from the idols’ agony, and from your angst, and from the unrelenting slavery that made you slaves:

You’ll brandish that old adage against Babylon’s king — you’ll say, ‘see how tyrants meet their end; how golden cities meet their end.’

God breaks the club of the wicked and the sceptre of the rulers,

The one that pounds down nations in fury, an endless pounding; the one that dominates clans in rage; that persecutes with no restraint.

The whole earth falls quiet in peace at last . . . a song of triumph bursts out!

Even the cypress trees gloat over you, and the cedars of Lebanon: ‘since you were laid flat, no one climbs up on us to cut us down.’

The Grave lurches to meet you from beneath as you come. She rouses up dead bodies to meet you, all the chieftains of the earth: she stands them up from their thrones, all the kings of the nations.

They’ll all talk back at you and say to you, ‘you too. Your strength is sapped like ours; you look just like us.’

Your pride is brought down to the Grave and the noise of your instruments. Maggots make their nest under you, and larvae cover you.

How fallen you are from the heavens, you morning star, son of the dark before dawn. You’re hewn down to the earth — you, who drained the strength of nations.

It was you who said in your heart, ‘I will mount up to the heavens. Up higher than the stars of this god I’ll elevate my throne, and settle on the mountain of assembly on its far northern flanks.

I will mount over the crests of the clouds. I shall become akin to the highest power.’

But in fact you’re brought down to the Grave, to the bowels of the abyss.

People who see you will narrow their eyes at you, and scrutinise you, asking each other: ‘is this the man that made the earth quake, shook kingdoms,

Laid the cosmos flat like a wasteland and razed its cities, never opened the door of his prisons?’

All the kings of the clans — all of them — sleep in their majesty, each in his own house,

But you, you’re rejected from your own mausoleum like a loathsome branch, a garment from a slaughtered body, gored with a blade, plummeting to the bedrock of the abyss. Like a trampled corpse.

You won’t be united with them in their tomb, because you ravaged your land and slaughtered your people. The seed of the wicked will go unmentioned for the rest of time.

Set things in order to massacre his sons for their father’s wickedness, so they never stand tall and take over the earth or occupy the whole surface of the world with cities.

‘I stand against them,’ declares God with his Legions. ‘I cut down Babylon’s sons and her survivors, her sons and her scions too,’ declares God.

‘I lay her out as property for the albatross, as a watery marsh. I sweep across her with sweeping annihilation,’ declares God with his Legions.

God committed himself. He promised: ‘just see if it doesn’t happen the way I picture it, and stand firm the way I planned,

To crack Assyria apart in my land, and stomp it flat on my mountain, and lift his yoke off of them; his burden will lift off their shoulder.

This is the plan planned over all the earth, and this is the hand stretched out over all the nations.

As God with his Legions is planning it, who’s going to avert it? His hand is outstretched — who’s going to push it back?

It was the year King Ahaz died when this burden came into being.

Don’t celebrate, Philistia in your full force, because the club that battered you is broken: out of the serpent’s stump springs forth a viper. Its fruit is a winged snake of flame.

The first-born sons of beggars will find food and pasture; the needy will bed down in peace of mind. But your root will die at my hand, and your survivors will be executed.

Wail, gate. Howl, city. Melt away, Philistia in all your force, because smoke comes from the far North, and there’ll be no going off alone at the times ordained.

What will they say in response to the nation's messengers? That God fixed the foundations of Zion, and his nation’s poor will rely on its protection.


The Burden of Moab
On the night Ar, City of Moab, is obliterated, left silent — on the night Kir is obliterated, he is left silent.

He went up to Baith and Dibon, the high places, to sob. Over Nabo and over Medeba, Moab will wail. And on all their heads is baldness; every venerable beard is shaved off.

In their alleyways they put on burlap clothing, and on their rooftops and in their city streets they’ll wail, breaking down in sobs.

And Heshbon will scream, and Elealeh. Their voice is heard all the way to Jahaz, and so Moab’s armed battalions will lament out loud: his own soul will torment him.

My own heart will lament out loud over Moab. His fugitives will sprint to Zoar, like a three-year-old heifer, by Luhith’s upward pass: they’ll go up it with sobs. On the road through Horonaim, they’ll raise a loud lament for their brokenness.

Because Nimrim’s waters will be left in desolate silence: the meadow is desiccated; the grass is wiped out; there is nothing green.

So all the profit they made, their carefully counted wealth, is what they’ll carry with them to the Riverbed lined with Willows.

Yes, the loud lament reverberates in Moab’s borders. And the wail reaches Eglaim, and the wail reaches Beer-elim.

Yes, Dimon’s waters are saturated with blood: I’ll pile still more onto Dimon — a lion for Moab’s refugees, and for those left behind from the homeland.


Send a ram to the ruler of the land, from the Rock-City in the desert wasteland to the mountain, to Zion's daughter.

And it happens: like bird that flails and flutters, expelled from its nest, that’s how Moab’s daughters will be at the crossings of the River Arnon.

Bring us your guidance; make a verdict; cast your shadow like nightfall at high noon. Keep the exiles hidden; don’t expose the fugitives.

Let my exiles lodge with you — cover for them. Be Moab's hiding-place from the destroyer.

Yes, the usurper is finished; the destroyer is spent; the boot is through stomping the earth.

Then the foundations of a throne are fixed in mercy, and he takes his seat upon it in truth, in David’s tabernacle — judging and seeking justice, accelerating the onset of righteousness.

We’ve heard about Moab’s arrogance. About how very arrogant he is; his insolence and his arrogance and his furious temper; the things he brags that aren’t so.

That’s why Moab will wail for Moab: the whole of him will wail, for the deep foundations of Kir-Hareseth — you’ll whimper, ‘how broken they are.’

Because Heshbon’s fields are wilted, and Sibmah’s vine; foreign lords have smashed their first fruits. They’ve reached all the way to Jazer, staggered their way through the desert wastelands. Her branches are spread abroad; they’re across the ocean now.

That’s why I’ll sob with the sobs of Jazer for Sibmah’s vine. I’ll saturate you with my tears, Heshbon and Elealeh, because battle cries have fallen on your harvest and your farthest borders.

Joy and celebration are gathered up out of the vineyard; in the vineyard no one will sing or shout in triumph; in the wine vats no treader will tread out wine; I’ve broken off the shout of exultation.

And so the very core of me will resound like a harp for Moab, and my insides will moan for Kir-Heres.

And it happens: It is coming into sight, How Moab is all worn out on the lofty heights, and comes to his sacred place to pray, but cannot.

This is the Proclamation God proclaimed to Moab since time past.

And now God proclaims. He says, ‘in three years, like the years of a contract, Moab’s majesty will be held in contempt, in all its raucous magnitude, what’s left behind will be minuscule and feeble.


The Burden of Damascus
Look: Damascus, a city snatched out of existence. It will be a pile of rubble.

Its cities will be abandoned for all time. They’ll belong to livestock; flocks will bed down there with no one to scare them off.

The stronghold at Ephraim will be brought to an end, and the kingdom of Damascus, and those left behind in Aram, will be like the majesty of Israel’s sons, declares God with his Legions.

And it happens On That Day: Jacob’s majesty will drain from him, and his fleshy girth will waste away.

And it happens, like a reaper gathering up corn, when his arm reaps the yield; it happens like a gleaner gleaning ears of corn in Rephaim Valley.

But a few stray crops will be left behind in it — it’s like shaking an olive tree: two or three olives on the tips of the treetops, five or six on its outermost fruit-bearing boughs, declares God, Israel’s god.

On That Day dust will gaze upon its maker; humanity's eyes will see Israel’s Sacred One.

They won’t gaze upon altars made by their hands, or look at ones their fingers made — the fertility-gods or the sun-gods.

On That Day the sturdy cities will be like abandoned woodlands, like treetops abandoned in the face of Israel’s sons — and there will be desolation.

Because you forgot the god of your salvation, and lost the memory of your sturdy fortress — that’s why you’re planting lovely plants, but sowing them with foreign vines.

On the day you’ll get your plant to grow; at dawn your seed will bring forth fruit: a pile of it on the harvest day of misery and hopeless pain.

Oh doom! A raucous throng of many nations, like thronging waters, and a roaring rush of peoples, like many rushing waters roar.

Nations roar like many waters roar, but God chides them and they sprint back miles away; they’re chased away like hay on mountains in the face of the wind’s breath, like tumbleweed in the face of a hurricane.

The moment of evening comes, and look: disaster. Before the sun rises he’s nothing. This is what anyone who steals from us gets, the lot that anyone who robs us draws.


Oh, doom! For the land where wings flutter, out past the rivers of Kush,

Sending dispatches by sea in papyrus baskets over the face of the ocean: go, nimble messengers to the people, tall with shining skin — to a nation fearsome from its origins until now, marching regiment by regiment, whose land the rivers split apart.

Everyone who lives in the world and sleeps on Earth: he raises his flag on the mountains — look! His trumpet blares — listen!

Because so says God to me: ‘I will sit back and survey my edifice — like a white heat in clean light; like a film of dew in the harvest heat.

Yes: in advance of the harvest, when the bloom is gone and the bitter grapes are ripening, he cuts the tender twigs with curved knives. He removes the branches; he lops them off.

They will all be left out for birds of prey on the mountains, for animals on the ground:
The birds of prey will live on them for the summer, and every animal on the ground will live on them for the winter.

In That Moment a procession will carry a tribute to God with his Legions: a people, tall with shining skin — a nation fearsome from its origins until now, marching regiment by regiment, whose land the rivers split apart,
To the place of God's name. To Mount Zion.


The Burden of Egypt:
Look at God astride his chariot of swift clouds: he comes to Egypt. And Egypt’s empty gods will reel in his presence; its heart will dissolve inside it.

I will pit Egypt against Egypt. They’ll go to war: every man against his brother, every man against his friend. City against city, kingdom against kingdom.

And Egypt’s spirit will be exhausted inside it; I will erase their plans and they’ll go running to their empty gods and cheap conjurers, to their mediums and magicians.

I hand Egypt over to hardened masters: a king will rule them with fierce might,' declares the Master, God with his Legions.

Then the ocean’s waters will run out; the river dry up and slink away;

The rivers falter; the brooks that surround them in safety languish and run dry; the sedges and reeds wither;

The lichen by the Nile — by the Nile’s mouth — and every river crop sown will slink away, be driven out, be nothing.

And the fisherman will moan in lament; everyone who casts hooks into the Nile or spreads nets across the water’s face will waste away.

Labourers who work with flaxen threads will be put to shame; so will those who weave linen,

And everyone who makes sluices and fishponds . . . her bedrock will be left in rubble.

How brainless Zoan’s elites are. Pharaoh’s wisest strategists form a wasted planning committee — how can you say to Pharaoh, ‘I am a son of wise men, a son of venerable Eastern kings?’

Where are your wise men now? Let’s see them tell you, let’s see what they know about what strategies the God of Legions is planning for Egypt.

Zoan’s elites make fools of themselves. Noph’s elites are deluded. They tripped Egypt up, those pillars of her tribes.

God concocted a noxious spirit inside her, and they tripped Egypt up in everything it did, the way a drunk trips in his own sick.

And there won’t be any work done in Egypt that a head or tail does, or a palm frond or a reed.

On That Day Egypt will be like a woman: it will quiver and tremble when faced with the fist God shakes, the shaking fist of the God of Legions.

And the land of Judah’s men will be dizzying terror for Egypt. Everyone who calls it to mind will tremble in the face of the plans God of Legions plans against him.

On That Day five cities in Egyptian territory will be speakers of Canaan’s tongue; they’ll swear themselves to the God of Legions. ‘City of Demolition,’ one of them will be called.

On That Day there’ll be an altar to God in the center of Egypt’s territory, and a column too, right on her border, erected to God.

And it’s meant as a sign, a witness to God with his Legions, in Egypt’s territory, the way they’ll call out to God in the face of those who grind them down. He’ll send them a saviour, a colossus, and he’ll rescue them.

And God will be made known to Egypt; Egypt will know God On That Day. Then they’ll offer service, sacrifice, oblation; they’ll vow vows to God, and keep the peace.

And God will topple Egypt — topple it and lift it back to life, and they’ll come back to God. And he’ll be moved by their pleas, and heal them.

On That Day there will be a thoroughfare from Egypt to Assyria — Assyria will come to Egypt, and Egypt to Assyria. Egypt will offer its service alongside Assyra.

On That Day Israel will make a third with Egypt and Assyria, a blessing in the center of the land.

Which God with his Legions blessed, saying: 'blessed are my people Egypt, and Assyria, and the things my hands have made, and my inheritance, Israel.


In the year when the Tartan came to Ashdod on a mission from Sargon, king of Assyria; when he waged war on Ashdod and conquered it,

In that time God proclaimed a thing by the hand of Isaiah son of Amoz. He said, ‘go, strip the burlap from off your crotch, and unstrap the sandals from your feet. And so he did, going naked and barefoot.

And God said, ‘the way my servant Isaiah walked, naked and barefoot — a sign and an omen for three years upon Egypt and Kush,

That’s how Assyria’s king will force his Egyptian captives and his exiles from Kush to march, young and old, naked and barefoot, their backsides stripped bare: Egypt’s humiliation.

They’ll be scared and ashamed — of Kush, their great white hope; of Egypt, their crown jewel.

Anyone who lives on that coast on that day will say, ‘look what’s become of our great white hope, where we fled for help, to be rescued from Assyria’s king. How can we escape?’


The burden of the desert wasteland by the water:
Like cyclones pass across the south, it comes: from desert regions, from a fearsome land.

A harsh vision is recounted to me — the deceiver deceives and the destroyer destroys. Arise, Elam; Medes, besiege. I’ve brought their sighing to an end.

And so my groin is wracked all over with convulsions — contractions seize me like the contractions of a woman giving birth. I was bent double at the sound; I was panicked at the sight.

My heart palpitated, shudders unsettled me; he turned an evening of pleasure into a horror for me.

They set the table. They keep watch in the watchtower. They eat. They drink. Get up, captains! Anoint the shield with oil!

Because so says my Master to me: ‘go, station someone at the watch. Let him tell what he sees.

When he sees a chariot with a yoked pair of steeds; a chariot of donkeys and a chariot of camels, let him stand at attention. Let him pay close attention.

He called out like a lion: ‘to the watchtower, master! Master, I’m standing still, standing for days, and on my guard; I hold my position for nights on end.

And look: this cavalry of men has come, a yoked pair of steeds. And in response he said, ‘Babylon is fallen, fallen, and all the carvings of their empty gods are broken on the ground.

Oh my trampled husks, young ones on my threshing floor — what I hear from God with his Legions, Israel’s god, I tell you.

Dumah’s Burden:
Someone calling out from Seir: ‘Guard! What news from the night? Guard! What news from the night?’

The guard said, ‘dawn comes, and night too. If you’re going to ask, ask. Turn around. Come back.

The burden on Arabia:
You’ll spend the night in thick Arabian woods, you Dedanite pilgrims.

When you go to meet a thirsty man, bring water. People living in Tema’s territory met a fugitive, and they brought their bread.

Because it’s the teeth of swords they’re fleeing from, from the teeth of swords drawn and bows bent, and from the mouth of a massive war.

Yes, so says my Master, my god, to me: ‘in one more year, like the year of a contract, all the majesty of Kedar will be spent.

And the number of archers still left, those strong sons of Kedar, will dwindle: God, Israel’s god, has proclaimed it.


The burden of the Canyon of Vision:
What is it with you now? You’ve climbed all the way up onto the rooftops!

Ruckus fills the city of tumult — the town of joy! Your casualties aren’t casualties of the sword, and they didn’t die in war.

All your captains turned and ran together from the archers. They were tied up; anyone who was found in you was tied up together; they fled from far away.

That’s why I said, ‘look away from me: I’m sobbing bitterly; don’t try to console me for the ruin of my people’s daughter.

Because this day of ruckus and stampeding and chaos belongs to my Master, God with his Legions, in the Canyon of Vision, tearing the town down and hollering up to the mountain.

And Elam carried the quiver, on chariots with men and their steeds, and Kir uncovered the shield.

And it happened when your choicest valleys were full of chariots: the horsemen stood arrayed at the gate in full array.

Then he pulled back Judah’s covering, and On That Day you peered at the battle gear in the House of the Woodland.

And you looked hard at the schisms in David’s city — at how many there were. Then you gathered together the waters of the lowest reservoir.

Next you counted the houses in Jerusalem, and dismantled those houses to buttress the wall.

And you made a ditch between the walls, for the water of the older reservoir — but you didn’t look closely at the one who made it, didn’t really see the architect from far away.

And my Master called out, the God of Legions, On That Day: for sobbing and loud grief, for shaved heads and burlap clothes.

Look: pleasure and enjoyment, killing cattle and slaughtering sheep, eating flesh and drinking wine — eat and drink, because tomorrow we die.

And in my ears the God of Legions laid it bare: this travesty will not be purged from you until you die, says my Master, God of Legions.

So says my Master, God of Legions, to me: ‘go, walk up to this steward, over to Shebna, who oversees the house.

What’s with you here — who’s with you here, so that you’ve chiseled out a tomb for yourself, you who chisel a tomb on high and carve a resting place into the rock?

See, God will take you down like a wrestling champion with a takedown, will drape himself over you.

He will roll you around and around, roll you like a ball into a wide expanse of territory: you will die there. Your majestic riding gear will be a disgrace in your Master’s house.

And he’ll shove you out of your position, and tear you down from where you stand.

And it happens On That Day: I call out to my servant, to Eliakim, Hilkiah’s son,

And clothe him in your vestment, and clasp him in your belt, and put your sovereignty into his hand, so he becomes father to anyone living in Jerusalem, and to the household of Judah.

And I put the means of opening David’s house on his shoulder: he opens, and there is no closing; he closes, and there is no opening.

Then I drive him like a nail into a secure spot, right onto the throne of his father’s majesty.

Then all the majesty of his father’s house will hang from him, generations proceeding and being cast forth, all the minor utensils, every last receptacle, from the cups to the pitchers.

On That Day,' declares God with his Legions, the nail driven into a secure spot will be extracted — it will be sliced out, will fall, and the burden on it will be cut apart: God proclaims it.


Tyre's Burden:
Wail, ships from Tarshish. It’s emptied: no entry, no access, no homes. From Kittim’s land it’s revealed to them.

Stand hushed, you island settlers, you, replenished by tradesmen from Sidon who pass through on the ocean —

And on many waters — that seed of the Dark Stream, the river-harvest, is her revenue — the commerce of the nations.

Hang your head in shame, Sidon: the ocean speaks; the ocean’s might speaks, and it says, ‘I suffered no labour pains; I gave no birth; I chose no growing boys to nourish, no maidens to raise.

When news comes to Egypt, the news about Tyre will torment them.

Cross over to Tarshish and wail, you island settlers.

Is this your joy, this ancient city from ancient days? Her feet took her far; she wandered.

Who laid this plot against Tyre, that crown city, whose tradesmen are princes — whose salesmen are revered in their majesty on Earth?

God of Legions. He laid the plot: to disfigure all the beauty of pride; to belittle the majesty of those revered on earth.

Pass across your land like the Nile, daughter of Tarshish: its girdle is no more.

His hand reaches across the ocean; he sets kingdoms quaking: God commands a legion against Canaan, to topple her strongholds.

And he said, ‘you won’t rejoice anymore. You violated maiden, Sidon’s daughter — get up. Pass over to Kittim: even there, no rest for you.

Look. Chaldean land. This is the nation that wasn’t, when Assyria founded it for the wildlings, erected its towers, leveled its peaks, laid waste to it.

Wail, ships from Tarshish: your stronghold is ravaged.

And it happens On That Day: Tyre will be forgotten for seventy years, as many days as a single king’s reign. And at the end of seventy years there will be a song in Tyre like a whore’s song.

Strum your strings, circle the city, you forgotten whore. Sing well and play long, so you’ll be remembered.

It happens at the end of seventy years: God will remember Tyre, and she’ll go where she gets paid. She’ll whore hreself out to all the world’s kingdoms, right on the face of the earth.

But her trade and her payment will be sanctity for God: it won’t be hoarded and it won’t be amassed. Her payment will be for those who live with eyes facing God — so they’ll have clothes that last and enough to eat.


See God emptying Earth out, effacing it. He turns it on its head; he sends everyone living there scattering.

And it happens to the people like it happens to the priest; to the servant as to the master; to the maid as to the noblewoman; to the customer as to the merchant; to the patron as to the client; to the creditor as to the credited.

The earth will be emptied, emptied. It will be pillaged, pillaged, because God has proclaimed this proclamation.

Earth wails; it wanes away. The world withers; it wanes away. Earth’s exalted people wither.

The Earth is corrupted beneath the people who live on it, because they’ve transgressed against what’s taught, violated what’s ordained, voided the eternal covenant.

And so: a curse consumes the earth, and everyone living there is implicated in it.
And so: everyone living on Earth is inflamed; pitifully few men are left behind.

The fresh vintage laments; the vine withers; every once-delighted heart is moaning.

The glee of tambourines stops short; the ruckus of the celebrators dies down; the glee of strumming strings stops short.

No one’s drinking wine and singing; liquor goes bitter in the drinker’s mouth.

The town in chaos is broken apart; every house is shut tight against entry.

In the streets, someone screams for wine. All delight goes dark; glee recoils from the Earth.

All that’s left in the city is desolation. The gate is struck and destroyed.

This is how it will be in the heart of the Earth, within every community: like an olive tree when it’s shaken; like puny grapes when the grape-harvest is done.

But them . . . they raise their voices. They shout in triumph; they bellow with pride in God across the sea.

And so magnify God in your flashes of light, on islands in the ocean — GOD by name! Israel’s god!

From the farthest wingtips of Earth they sing, and we hear it, legions arrayed in the cause of righteousness.
But I say, ‘Oh, I, I am thin, thin. The deceivers deceived me, they blinded me, oh, they deceived me, they left me blind.’

Terror and traps and tripwires are all around you, you who live on the Earth.

And it happens: anyone who runs away from the voice of the terror will fall in the trap, and whoever gets up from inside the trap will catch on the tripwire: the windows swing open in the exalted realms, and the earth’s foundations are rattled.

Earth breaks up into broken pieces; Earth is annihilated into nothing; Earth dissolves in dissolution.

Earth staggers, staggers like a drunk and gets dismantled like a hut, and its defiance weighs heavy upon it, and it falls, and it doesn’t get back up again.

And it happens On That Day: God will bring a reckoning upon the legion of exalted ones in exalted realms, and upon the kings of humankind on human territory.

And they’ll be rounded up, prisoners rounded up into a dungeon pit, and shut off in an enclosure, and visited after many days.

And the moon will flush with shame; the sun will be abashed, because the God of Legions will reign on the mountain, Zion, and in Jerusalem, and before the elders will be majesty.


God! You are my god — I will exalt you; I will praise your name, because you have done miracles, given true guidance from long ago and far away, secure in truth:

You made what was once a town into a pile of rubble; made an armored city into a ruin; made a fortress filled with foreigners into nothing. For the rest of time it won’t be built.

And so a mighty nation will magnify you; a city of ruthless peoples will fear you,

Because you are power for the needy, power for beggars in their oppression; shelter from the deluge; shade from the scorching heat; when even the breath of the ruthless is like a deluge against the city ramparts.

You subdued the roar of foreign crowds like scorching heat in a desert, heat in the shade of a cloud. The song of the ruthless ones will be brought low.

And God with his Legions will make a feast,
For all the nations,
On this mountain,
Of fat things.
A feast of fine wine and fat cuts of meat. Fine, sophisticated wine.

He will devour, on this mountain,
The veil that veils over all nations —
The shroud spread across every race.

He will devour death forever, and my Master, God, will wipe tears off of every face.
As for the ignominy of his people: he will banish it from the earth —
For so God proclaimed.

And it will be said On That Day, ‘Look: our god. This is him, we put our high hopes in him, and he saved us. This is God; we put our high hopes in him — we will celebrate and rejoice in his salvation,

Because God’s hand will hover over this mountain, and Moab will be trampled under him, like straw trampled into a pile of dung.

And he stretches wide his hands in their midst, like a swimmer stretches his hands to swim, and he brings their arrogance low, though their hands are cunning and deft.

He brings low the fortress and the lofty ramparts of your walls, humbles them, wrenches them to the ground, into the dirt.


On That Day this song will be sung in Judah’s land:

A city of strength is ours.
Salvation: God laid it down as our walls and our reinforcements.

Open the gates:
A righteous nation that keeps the faith will come in.

You will fence off the mind that fixes on you with peace, peace
Because it trusts in you.

Trust God forever and ever:
In GOD WHO IS GOD is a rock for all generations.

Yes: he abased those who live in exalted realms; in the city set on high:
He brought it low, he laid it low to the earth,
He wrenched it down into the dust.

A foot will trample it down: the foot of the needy —
The relentless tread of the poor.

The righteous travel on a route made straight:
Oh You who Stand Straight and Tall, you smooth the path the righteous take.

Yes indeed, on the path of your judgment, oh God, we’ve put our high hopes in you.
Our souls have ached with longing for your name and the memory of you.

In my soul I ache with longing for you at night. My breath itself, in my insides . . . I look for you at dawn,
Because whenever your judgments are on Earth, whoever lives in the world learns righteousness.

Let the wicked man be granted mercy: he still won’t learn righteousness.
In the land of the straight and narrow, he’ll still do wrong, and he won’t see the splendour of God.

God: your hand is on high but they still have no vision;
They will, though. They’ll see. They’ll be ashamed of their fierce resentment against the people, oh yes,
your oppressors will be food for the flame.

God, you will ordain peace for us,
Because you’ve accomplished for us everything we had to do.

God. Our god . . . masters other than you have held us in their sway;
But thanks to you we remember your name.

The dead will never live, no, the ghosts will never rise —
That’s how you’ve reckoned with them, destroyed them and erased their memory.

You’ve gathered together a people, God, gathered a people together: you are magnified.
You had driven them far, all to the ends of the earth.

God, in oppression they became aware of you;
They poured out their whispered prayer when you disciplined them.

Like a pregnant woman getting close to giving birth, when she writhes and screams in her labour pains —
That’s how we’ve been in your sight, God.

We were pregnant, we writhed, but we gave birth to something like empty air . . .
We can accomplish no salvation on earth, no, not a single one of those who live in the world has come back to life.

But the dead who belong to you will live; so will my collapsing body: they will be raised.
Cut short your sleep, sing in triumph, you who lie in the dirt: the dewdrops upon you shine like dew in the light, and the earth is bringing its ghosts back to life.

Onward, my people, go into your chambers and shut your doors around you;
Hide just for a moment, until the rage passes you by.

Because — look: God, coming forth from his station, to bring a reckoning for the evil of everyone who lives on Earth:
Earth will lay bare her blood. She won’t hide her murder victims anymore.


On That Day God will bring a reckoning with his massive sword, harsh and strong,
Upon Leviathan the piercing serpent,
Upon Leviathan the twisted serpent,
And slay the monster in the ocean.

On That Day, sing to her:
‘a vineyard of pure red wine.

I am God who guards it;
every instant I will water it so no one can come near it;
I will guard it night and day.

No anger burns in me.
Who will meet me in battle with thorns and choke-weed?
I will charge among them;
I will immolate them all at once.

Or let him cling to my strength.
Let him make peace with me,
peace, between him and me.

In the coming days Jacob will put down roots; Israel will bloom and burst forth, and the surface of the world will be filled with its bounty.

Did he strike like the one who struck him? Or murder his murderer like he was murdered?

When she rushes forth he’ll wrangle with her with a battle-cry . . . he grinds her down with his harsh breath in the day of the East wind.

And so, in this, Jacob’s evil is purged. This is all the fruit of clearing his sin away, when he makes all the altar-stones like stones of chalk — pulverised. The statues of Asherah will not be raised, nor will the sun gods.

Because the fortified city is alone; home is rejected and left behind like a desert wasteland. Calves will find pasture there; they will rest their heads there and eat up every one of its branches.

When its crop withers, it will be broken off. Women will come to set it alight:
This nation has no understanding, and so
They will find no pity in the heart of him who made them;
he who sculpted them will show them no mercy.

And it happens On That Day: God will knock them out from the rushing of the river up to Egypt’s river valley, and you will all be reaped and gathered into one, you sons of Israel.

It happens On That Day: at a blast from a massive horn they’ll come, they who perished in Assyria’s land, and they who were cast out into Egypt’s land, and they’ll prostrate themselves before God on his sacred mountain, in Jerusalem.

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