That’s why God flamed out in anger against his people, reached out and knocked them down. The mountains trembled as their dead bodies piled up in the streets. But even after that, he was still angry, his fist still raised, ready to hit them again. He raises a flag, signaling a distant nation, whistles for people at the ends of the earth. And here they come— on the run! None drag their feet, no one stumbles, no one sleeps or dawdles. Shirts are on and pants buckled, every boot is spit-polished and tied. Their arrows are sharp, bows strung, The hooves of their horses shod, chariot wheels greased. Roaring like a pride of lions, the full-throated roars of young lions, They growl and seize their prey, dragging it off—no rescue for that one! They’ll roar and roar and roar on that Day, like the roar of ocean billows. Look as long and hard as you like at that land, you’ll see nothing but darkness and trouble. Every light in the sky will be blacked out by the clouds.

When people tell you, “Try out the fortunetellers. Consult the spiritualists. Why not tap into the spirit-world, get in touch with the dead?” Tell them, “No, we’re going to study the Scriptures.” People who try the other ways get nowhere—a dead end! Frustrated and famished, they try one thing after another. When nothing works out they get angry, cursing first this god and then that one, Looking this way and that, up, down, and sideways—and seeing nothing, A blank wall, an empty hole. They end up in the dark with nothing.

So God incited their adversaries against them, stirred up their enemies to attack: From the east, Arameans; from the west, Philistines. They made hash of Israel. But even after that, he was still angry, his fist still raised, ready to hit them again.

But the people paid no mind to him who hit them, didn’t seek God-of-the-Angel-Armies. So God hacked off Israel’s head and tail, palm branch and reed, both on the same day. The bigheaded elders were the head, the lying prophets were the tail. Those who were supposed to lead this people led them down blind alleys, And those who followed the leaders ended up lost and confused. That’s why the Master lost interest in the young men, had no feeling for their orphans and widows. All of them were godless and evil, talking filth and folly. And even after that, he was still angry, his fist still raised, ready to hit them again.

Their wicked lives raged like an out-of-control fire, the kind that burns everything in its path— Trees and bushes, weeds and grasses— filling the skies with smoke. God-of-the-Angel-Armies answered fire with fire, set the whole country on fire, Turned the people into consuming fires, consuming one another in their lusts— Appetites insatiable, stuffing and gorging themselves left and right with people and things. But still they starved. Not even their children were safe from their greedy hunger. Manasseh ate Ephraim, and Ephraim Manasseh, and then the two ganged up against Judah. And after that, he was still angry, his fist still raised, ready to hit them again. * * *

You Who Legislate Evil

Doom to you who legislate evil, who make laws that make victims— Laws that make misery for the poor, that rob my destitute people of dignity, Exploiting defenseless widows, taking advantage of homeless children. What will you have to say on Judgment Day, when Doomsday arrives out of the blue? Who will you get to help you? What good will your money do you? A sorry sight you’ll be then, huddled with the prisoners, or just some corpses stacked in the street. Even after all this, God is still angry, his fist still raised, ready to hit them again.

Doom to Assyria!

“Doom to Assyria, weapon of my anger. My wrath is a club in his hands! I send him against a godless nation, against the people I’m angry with. I command him to strip them clean, rob them blind, and then push their faces in the mud and leave them. But Assyria has another agenda; he has something else in mind. He’s out to destroy utterly, to stamp out as many nations as he can. Assyria says, ‘Aren’t my commanders all kings? Can’t they do whatever they like? Didn’t I destroy Calno as well as Carchemish? Hamath as well as Arpad? Level Samaria as I did Damascus? I’ve eliminated kingdoms full of gods far more impressive than anything in Jerusalem and Samaria. So what’s to keep me from destroying Jerusalem in the same way I destroyed Samaria and all her god-idols?’”

My Strength and Song

And you will say in that day, “I thank you, God. You were angry but your anger wasn’t forever. You withdrew your anger and moved in and comforted me.

“Run up a flag on an open hill. Yell loud. Get their attention. Wave them into formation. Direct them to the nerve center of power. I’ve taken charge of my special forces, called up my crack troops. They’re bursting with pride and passion to carry out my angry judgment.”

“At that same time, a fine vineyard will appear. There’s something to sing about! I, God, tend it. I keep it well-watered. I keep careful watch over it so that no one can damage it. I’m not angry. I care. Even if it gives me thistles and thornbushes, I’ll just pull them out and burn them up. Let that vine cling to me for safety, let it find a good and whole life with me, let it hold on for a good and whole life.”

But you will sing, sing through an all-night holy feast! Your hearts will burst with song, make music like the sound of flutes on parade, En route to the mountain of God, on the way to the Rock of Israel. God will sound out in grandiose thunder, display his hammering arm, Furiously angry, showering sparks— cloudburst, storm, hail! Oh yes, at God’s thunder Assyria will cower under the clubbing. Every blow God lands on them with his club is in time to the music of drums and pipes, God in all-out, two-fisted battle, fighting against them. Topheth’s fierce fires are well prepared, ready for the Assyrian king. The Topheth furnace is deep and wide, well stoked with hot-burning wood. God’s breath, like a river of burning pitch, starts the fire.

And here’s why: God is angry, good and angry with all the nations, So blazingly angry at their arms and armies that he’s going to rid earth of them, wipe them out. The corpses, thrown in a heap, will stink like the town dump in midsummer, Their blood flowing off the mountains like creeks in spring runoff. Stars will fall out of the sky like overripe, rotting fruit in the orchard, And the sky itself will be folded up like a blanket and put away in a closet. All that army of stars, shriveled to nothing, like leaves and fruit in autumn, dropping and rotting!

A Message from the high and towering God, who lives in Eternity, whose name is Holy: “I live in the high and holy places, but also with the low-spirited, the spirit-crushed, And what I do is put new spirit in them, get them up and on their feet again. For I’m not going to haul people into court endlessly, I’m not going to be angry forever. Otherwise, people would lose heart. These souls I created would tire out and give up. I was angry, good and angry, because of Israel’s sins. I struck him hard and turned away in anger, while he kept at his stubborn, willful ways. When I looked again and saw what he was doing, I decided to heal him, lead him, and comfort him, creating a new language of praise for the mourners. Peace to the far-off, peace to the near-at-hand,” says God— “and yes, I will heal them. But the wicked are storm-battered seas that can’t quiet down. The waves stir up garbage and mud. There’s no peace,” God says, “for the wicked.”

What’s That We See in the Distance?

“What’s that we see in the distance, a cloud on the horizon, like doves darkening the sky? It’s ships from the distant islands, the famous Tarshish ships Returning your children from faraway places, loaded with riches, with silver and gold, And backed by the name of your God, The Holy of Israel, showering you with splendor. Foreigners will rebuild your walls, and their kings assist you in the conduct of worship. When I was angry I hit you hard. It’s my desire now to be tender. Your Jerusalem gates will always be open —open house day and night!— Receiving deliveries of wealth from all nations, and their kings, the delivery boys! Any nation or kingdom that doesn’t deliver will perish; those nations will be totally wasted. The rich woods of Lebanon will be delivered —all that cypress and oak and pine— To give a splendid elegance to my Sanctuary, as I make my footstool glorious. The descendants of your oppressor will come bowing and scraping to you. All who looked down at you in contempt will lick your boots. They’ll confer a title on you: City of God, Zion of The Holy of Israel. Not long ago you were despised refuse— out-of-the-way, unvisited, ignored. But now I’ve put you on your feet, towering and grand forever, a joy to look at! When you suck the milk of nations and the breasts of royalty, You’ll know that I, God, am your Savior, your Redeemer, Champion of Jacob. I’ll give you only the best—no more hand-me-downs! Gold instead of bronze, silver instead of iron, bronze instead of wood, iron instead of stones. I’ll install Peace to run your country, make Righteousness your boss. There’ll be no more stories of crime in your land, no more robberies, no more vandalism. You’ll name your main street Salvation Way, and install Praise Park at the center of town. You’ll have no more need of the sun by day nor the brightness of the moon at night. God will be your eternal light, your God will bathe you in splendor. Your sun will never go down, your moon will never fade. I will be your eternal light. Your days of grieving are over. All your people will live right and well, in permanent possession of the land. They’re the green shoot that I planted, planted with my own hands to display my glory. The runt will become a great tribe, the weakling become a strong nation. I am God. At the right time I’ll make it happen.”

Can We Be Saved?

Oh, that you would rip open the heavens and descend, make the mountains shudder at your presence— As when a forest catches fire, as when fire makes a pot to boil— To shock your enemies into facing you, make the nations shake in their boots! You did terrible things we never expected, descended and made the mountains shudder at your presence. Since before time began no one has ever imagined, No ear heard, no eye seen, a God like you who works for those who wait for him. You meet those who happily do what is right, who keep a good memory of the way you work. But how angry you’ve been with us! We’ve sinned and kept at it so long! Is there any hope for us? Can we be saved? We’re all sin-infected, sin-contaminated. Our best efforts are grease-stained rags. We dry up like autumn leaves— sin-dried, we’re blown off by the wind. No one prays to you or makes the effort to reach out to you Because you’ve turned away from us, left us to stew in our sins.

Still, God, you are our Father. We’re the clay and you’re our potter: All of us are what you made us. Don’t be too angry with us, O God. Don’t keep a permanent account of wrongdoing. Keep in mind, please, we are your people—all of us. Your holy cities are all ghost towns: Zion’s a ghost town, Jerusalem’s a field of weeds. Our holy and beautiful Temple, which our ancestors filled with your praises, Was burned down by fire, all our lovely parks and gardens in ruins. In the face of all this, are you going to sit there unmoved, God? Aren’t you going to say something? Haven’t you made us miserable long enough?