In little more than a year you who feel secure will tremble; the grape harvest will fail, and the harvest of fruit will not come.
Tremble, you complacent women; shudder, you daughters who feel secure! Strip off your fine clothes and wrap yourselves in rags.
Beat your breasts for the pleasant fields, for the fruitful vines
and for the land of my people, a land overgrown with thorns and briers— yes, mourn for all houses of merriment and for this city of revelry.
The fortress will be abandoned, the noisy city deserted; citadel and watchtower will become a wasteland forever, the delight of donkeys, a pasture for flocks,
till the Spirit is poured on us from on high, and the desert becomes a fertile field, and the fertile field seems like a forest.
The LORD’s justice will dwell in the desert, his righteousness live in the fertile field.
The fruit of that righteousness will be peace; its effect will be quietness and confidence forever.
My people will live in peaceful dwelling places, in secure homes, in undisturbed places of rest.
Though hail flattens the forest and the city is leveled completely,
how blessed you will be, sowing your seed by every stream, and letting your cattle and donkeys range free.