Burden of the Lord’s doom, where falls it now? On Hadrach’s land; ay, and Damascus shall be its resting-place; all men’s eyes are fixed on the Lord, all the tribes of Israel are watching him now.✻

Perilously near is Emath, and yonder cities of Tyre and Sidon, so famed for wisdom.

This Tyre, how strong a fortress she has built, what silver and gold she has amassed, till they were common as clay, as mire in the streets!

Ay, but the Lord means to dispossess her; cast into the sea, all that wealth of hers, and herself burnt to the ground!

At the sight of it, how Ascalon trembles, how Gaza mourns, and Accaron, for hopes belied; no chieftain in Gaza, no townsfolk left in Ascalon now;

in Azotus dwells a bastard breed. So low will I bring the pride of yonder Philistines;

snatch the blood-stained morsel from their mouths, the unhallowed food theirs no longer;✻ servant of our God he shall be that is left surviving, a clansman✻ in Juda; so shall Accaron be all one with the Jebusite.

I have sentinels that shall march to and fro, guarding this home of mine, and none shall take toll of it henceforward; my eyes are watching now.

Glad news for thee, widowed Sion; cry out for happiness, Jerusalem forlorn! See where thy king comes to greet thee, a trusty deliverer; see how lowly he rides, mounted on an ass, patient colt of patient dam!✻

Chariots of thine, Ephraim, horses of thine, Jerusalem, shall be done away, bow of the warrior be unstrung; peace this king shall impose on the world, reigning from sea to sea, from Euphrates to the world’s end.

How should they be ransomed, but by the blood of thy covenant with me, those thy fellow-countrymen, in waterless dungeons bound?

To these sheltering walls, O patient prisoners, return; you have my warrant, double recompense shall be granted you.

Bow of mine is Juda, Ephraim my shafts employ; Greece, look to thy sons when I match the sons of Sion against them, sword in a warrior’s hand!

See him there, in visible form, high above them, the Lord God, that volleys down shaft of his lightning, sounds with the trumpet, rides on the storm-wind of the south!

He, the Lord of hosts, will be their protection; with sling-stones for teeth, flesh of men eat they, drink blood like revellers at their wine; not sacrificial bowl, nor altar’s horns, so drenched with blood.

His own people, his own sheep, will not the Lord God in that hour defend them? His own sacred trophy themselves shall be, to this land of his beckoning all men’s eyes;✻

a people how blessed and how fair!✻ So well with corn and wine furnished, both man and maid shall thrive.✻