Doom to those who get up early and start drinking booze before breakfast, Who stay up all hours of the night drinking themselves into a stupor. They make sure their banquets are well-furnished with harps and flutes and plenty of wine, But they’ll have nothing to do with the work of God, pay no mind to what he is doing. Therefore my people will end up in exile because they don’t know the score. Their “honored men” will starve to death and the common people die of thirst. Sheol developed a huge appetite, swallowing people nonstop! Big people and little people alike down that gullet, to say nothing of all the drunks. The down-and-out on a par with the high-and-mighty, Windbag boasters crumpled, flaccid as a punctured bladder. But by working justice, God-of-the-Angel-Armies will be a mountain. By working righteousness, Holy God will show what “holy” is. And lambs will graze as if they owned the place, Kids and calves right at home in the ruins.

The princes of Zoan are fools, the advisors of Pharaoh stupid. How could any of you dare tell Pharaoh, “Trust me: I’m wise. I know what’s going on. Why, I’m descended from the old wisdom of Egypt”? There’s not a wise man or woman left in the country. If there were, one of them would tell you what God-of-the-Angel-Armies has in mind for Egypt. As it is, the princes of Zoan are all fools and the princes of Memphis, idiots. The honored pillars of your society have led Egypt into detours and dead ends. God has scrambled their brains, Egypt’s become a falling-down-in-his-own-vomit drunk. Egypt’s hopeless, past helping, a senile, doddering old fool. * * *

But there are some who will break into glad song. Out of the west they’ll shout of God’s majesty. Yes, from the east God’s glory will ascend. Every island of the sea Will broadcast God’s fame, the fame of the God of Israel. From the four winds and the seven seas we hear the singing: “All praise to the Righteous One!” But I said, “That’s all well and good for somebody, but all I can see is doom, doom, and more doom.” All of them at one another’s throats, yes, all of them at one another’s throats. Terror and pits and booby traps are everywhere, whoever you are. If you run from the terror, you’ll fall into the pit. If you climb out of the pit, you’ll get caught in the trap. Chaos pours out of the skies. The foundations of earth are crumbling. Earth is smashed to pieces, earth is ripped to shreds, earth is wobbling out of control, Earth staggers like a drunk, sways like a shack in a high wind. Its piled-up sins are too much for it. It collapses and won’t get up again.

God Will Speak in Baby Talk

Doom to the pretentious drunks of Ephraim, shabby and washed out and seedy— Tipsy, sloppy-fat, beer-bellied parodies of a proud and handsome past. Watch closely: God has someone picked out, someone tough and strong to flatten them. Like a hailstorm, like a hurricane, like a flash flood, one-handed he’ll throw them to the ground. Samaria, the party hat on Israel’s head, will be knocked off with one blow. It will disappear quicker than a piece of meat tossed to a dog.

These also, the priest and prophet, stagger from drink, weaving, falling-down drunks, Besotted with wine and whiskey, can’t see straight, can’t talk sense. Every table is covered with vomit. They live in vomit.

Drug yourselves so you feel nothing. Blind yourselves so you see nothing. Get drunk, but not on wine. Black out, but not from whiskey. For God has rocked you into a deep, deep sleep, put the discerning prophets to sleep, put the farsighted seers to sleep.

So wake up! Rub the sleep from your eyes! Up on your feet, Jerusalem! You’ve drunk the cup God handed you, the strong drink of his anger. You drank it down to the last drop, staggered and collapsed, dead-drunk. And nobody to help you home, no one among your friends or children to take you by the hand and put you in bed. You’ve been hit with a double dose of trouble —does anyone care? Assault and battery, hunger and death —will anyone comfort? Your sons and daughters have passed out, strewn in the streets like stunned rabbits, Sleeping off the strong drink of God’s anger, the rage of your God.

A call to the savage beasts: Come on the run. Come, devour, beast barbarians! For Israel’s watchmen are blind, the whole lot of them. They have no idea what’s going on. They’re dogs without sense enough to bark, lazy dogs, dreaming in the sun— But hungry dogs, they do know how to eat, voracious dogs, with never enough. And these are Israel’s shepherds! They know nothing, understand nothing. They all look after themselves, grabbing whatever’s not nailed down. “Come,” they say, “let’s have a party. Let’s go out and get drunk!” And tomorrow, more of the same: “Let’s live it up!”