The Temple hill!✻ One day it shall stand there, highest of all the mountain-heights, overtopping the peaks of them, and the nations will flock there together.

A multitude of peoples will make their way to it, crying, Come, let us climb up to the Lord’s mountain-peak, to the house where the God of Jacob dwells; he shall teach us the right way, we will walk in the paths he has chosen. The Lord’s command shall go out from Sion, his word from Jerusalem;

over thronging peoples he shall sit in judgement, give award to great nations from far away. Sword they will fashion into ploughshare and spear into pruning-hook; no room there shall be for nation to levy war against nation, and train itself in arms.

At ease you shall sit, each of you with his own vine, his own fig-tree to give him shade, and none to raise the alarm; such blessing the Lord of hosts pronounces on you.

Let other nations go their own way, each with the name of its own god to rally it; ours to march under his divine name, who is our God for ever and for evermore!

When that time comes, the Lord says, I will gather them in again and take them to myself, flock of mine that go limping and straggling, ever since I brought calamity on them;

lame shall yet be a stock to breed from, and wayworn shall grow into a sturdy race; here in Sion they shall dwell, and the Lord be king over them, for ever henceforward.

And thou, the watch-tower of that flock, cloud-capped fastness where the lady Sion reigns, power shall come back to thee as of old, once more Jerusalem shall be a queen.

When that time comes! At this present time, what anguish is this constrains thee? Have king and counsellor played thee false, that the pangs of travail take hold on thee?

Sorrow thou well mayst, lady of Sion, and labour as any woman brought to bed; city thou must needs leave, and lodge in the open country-side, nay, to distant Babylon thou must journey;✻ there it is thou wilt find deliverance, there it is the Lord will ransom thee from the power of thy enemies.

At this present time, how many the nations that gather about thee, crying, Death to the adulteress! Feast we our eyes on Sion’s downfall!

Little they know God’s thoughts; little they guess his purpose is to store them up, like wheat on the threshing-floor!

Up, lady of Sion, and set about the threshing of them! Horn of iron, hoof of bronze he will give thee, to grind all that conspiracy of nations to dust. Forfeit to the Lord their ill-gotten gains shall be; nothing of theirs but must be his, who is master of the whole earth.