The Holy Bible – Knox Translation
The Prophecy of Joel
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Chapter 1
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1 2 3
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This message came from the Lord to Joel, the son of Phatuel.

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Citizens, hear and heed, ruler and commoner alike! Tell me, what happenings are these, in your days and in your fathers’ days unmatched,
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a tale you must needs hand on to your children, and they to theirs, and theirs to a fresh generation yet?
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That locusts, breed upon breed of them, so ravage yonder country-side, Swarmer devouring what Spoiler, Ruin-all what Gnaw-all has left?
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Weep they and wail, the tipplers that must be ever at their cups, for the sweet wine they drank, and shall drink no more!

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Alas, my country, how valiant an enemy is this, in number past all counting, that comes to invade thee; lion nor lion’s whelp has teeth can grind so pitilessly.
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Spoiled thy vineyards lie, stripped of the very bark thy fig-trees; bare and blanched and ruinous every bough.
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Weep bitterly, then, as maid that goes clad in sackcloth, untimely widowed;
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in the Lord’s house, bread nor wine is offered now; for the priests, the Lord’s own ministers, no office now but tears.
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Desolate the land lies, every field forlorn; crops ravaged, the vine thirsty, strengthless the oil.
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Alas, for husbandman’s labour lost, for vintage-song turned to lament! Alas for harvest perished,
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for vineyard withered, and drooping fig-tree! Pomegranate, and palm, and apple, no tree in the wood but fades there; what wonder? Has not joy faded in human hearts?

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Mourn, priests, and lament; in mourners’ garb go about your work at the altar; ministers of God, to his presence betake you, and there, in sackcloth, keep vigil; your God’s house, that offering of bread and wine has none!
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Then proclaim a fast, assemble the folk together, ruler and commoner alike summon to the temple, and there for the Lord’s help cry lustily.
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Woe betide us this day! The day of the Lord is coming; his the dominion, his the doom.
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Here in our sight, here in the temple of our God, the festal cheer abolished, all the contentment, all the rejoicing!
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Beast on dung-heap rots; barn-wall gapes, and store-house lies in ruin, the hope of harvest gone;
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echoes byre with lowing of bewildered cattle, that pasture have none; even the flocks dwindle.
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What help, Lord, but thine? Parched are the upland meadows, every tree scorched in the forest;
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to thee even the wild beasts make their dumb appeal, from dry river-beds, from upland pastures laid bare.