Rhyming Isaiah, Chapter 47

Rhyming Isaiah, Chapter 47

Sit in the dust, there, once you have come down,

you virgin daughter, you, of Babylon.

Sit on the ground, you, there, without a throne,

O daughter of Chaldea! No more shall

you, delicate and tender, both, be called.

Now take your millstones and, with them, grind meal.

Strip off your robe, but first remove your veil,

your legs, uncover, through the rivers, pass.

Uncovered, it will be, your nakedness

and your shame shall be seen.  What I will take:

my vengeance, and spare no one, whom I will.

Redeemer, Our–the LORD of hosts, his name

is–he’s the Holy One of Israel.

In silence, sit, and into darkness, go,

Chaldea, daughter! For you shall be no

more, as the mistress of the kingdoms, known.

How I was, angry with my people, so,

my heritage, that was what I profaned;

and I surrendered them into your hand.

No mercy, what it was to them you showed,

and, on the aged, you laid a heavy yoke.

You said, “Forever, I shall, mistress, be”;

you did not take them to your heart, these things,

nor of their future outcome did you think.

Now hear this, lover, you, of luxury

who, on your throne, sits with security,

who says this to yourself in secrecy,

“I am and there is no one besides me;

a window’s nothing that I’ll ever be

or know the loss of children.”  Suddenly,

yet, in a single day, will both these things

befall you: widowhood, you’ll be bereaved,

them both, despite your many sorceries.

How your enchantments will lack potency.

You, in your wickedness, security,

felt, and said to yourself, “No one sees me.”

Your wisdom and your knowledge, where they led,

you, there, astray, and in your heart you said,

“I am and, me, besides, there is no one.”

Hence, how disaster, will, upon you, come

which, able to avert, you will not be,

and evil shall come on your suddenly.

It’s from a place that you did not foresee.

Up with, all your enchantments, you should keep

and also will all of your sorceries

with which you’ve labored since your infancy;

with them, inspire, you, terror, possibly!

With all your consultations, how you feel:

so weary; let all your astrologers

stand up and save you, those who gaze at stars,

let them predict with ev’ry passing moon

all the events that, happen, will, to you.

See, they’re like stubble, them, the fire consumes:

they cannot save themselves from, of the flames,

the power. It’s not that which, them, will warm,

a glowing coal, no fire to sit before!

Such will your wizards, to be for you, prove

with whom you worked together from your youth.

In their own paths, where all of them peruse,

and not a one of them can e’er save you.