Isaiah 1

The oak in the garden is withering.
Trunk spotted as lepers’ skin, branches
fallen and rotting, leaves trampled
underfoot like the lives of widows.
Zion, you were formed to be
a blossoming thing,
a canopy of justice.

But instead, there is blood.

Heart-sick and hard-souled,
how can you ever be
healed?
Hypocrites, high-and-mighty
subscribers to your sects and parties,
hollow trees, where will you find
peace?

Orphans stumble under your eaves

and no one helps them up.
Instead you sing
a pretty offering to your king.
You praise him for blessing,
you pray, you dance and sing
at the temple festivals.
But your hands are unclean.

How bitter, this fall, this Fall.

Zion, Zion, you stubborn city,
put away your rejoicing.
Repent.
Wash yourself in justice,
bandage yourself with compassion.
Cut off your blackened branches
and let them burn.

And there will be blood

but the blood will not be
yours.
And the autumn leaves
of sin and death and dying
will face the scourge of winter.
And the autumn leaves
will be covered over with snow.