Chapter 16

Send forth (O Lord) a lamb to be ruler of the land,1 from Petra in the desert to the hill where queen Sion reigns.

There they will be, the women-folk of Moab, waiting at the ford of Arnon, like fluttered birds, fledgelings that have taken wing from the nest;

there are plans to be made, deliberations to be held; Shelter us, like the shadow, dark as night, that gives shelter at noon-day; hide these fugitives of ours, do not betray them in their wanderings;

let them dwell as exiles in your land; poor Moab,2 give it sanctuary from threat of the invader! But see, the dust of armies has died down, the guilty wretch has met his end; vanished and gone, who trampled the world under foot!

Mercy and faithfulness return; a throne set up in David’s dwelling-place, for a judge that loves right and gives redress speedily!

The boasting of Moab has long been in our ears; who so boastful as he? Proud, scornful, and overbearing, with dreams that came to nothing.

So, from one end of Moab to the other, there is a dirge, everywhere a dirge; for yonder folk, that live content behind walls of hardened brick, tidings of ruin.

The fields about Hesebon lie deserted; alien chieftains have rooted up the vineyard of Sabama, whose shoots once reached as far as Jazer, strayed through the wilderness;4 forlorn, now, its tendrils, wandering overseas.

I will weep, then, as Jazer weeps, for the vineyard of Sabama, water Hesebon and Eleale with my tears. That thy vineyard, thy vintage-time should be disturbed by the cry of trampling armies!

All joy, all triumph gone from that fruitful land of thine; no mirth, no gaiety left; the presses shall be trampled no more by the labourers we knew; forgotten, now, the cry that used to go up when they trod the grapes.

For Moab, my inmost being thrills like a harp’s strings; my heart goes out to those brick-walled cities of hers.

What shift will she make, when all goes ill with her on the heights? Prayer of hers, recourse to those shrines of hers, shall nothing avail her?

Such was the word the Lord spoke to Moab, long since,

and now he declares his purpose: In three years, by the time a labourer’s contract is out, Moab, so populous now, shall be shorn of her glory; shall be left small and weak, a thriving nation no longer.