The Song of the Vineyard
Let me sing you a song about someone I love—a song about his vineyard. My friend owned a vineyard on a rich, fertile hillside. He built a fence around it, cleared out the stones, and planted the finest grapevines. He built a watchtower in the middle and carved out a wine press. He expected a harvest of sweet grapes. Instead, he got sour, wild fruit.
So now, people of Jerusalem—you, the men of Judah—you be the judge. What’s fair here? Who’s right, me or my vineyard? What more could I have done? I gave it everything. So why, when I expected sweet grapes, did it give me sour ones?
Here’s what I’m going to do: I’ll tear down the fence, and wild animals will devour it. I’ll break down the wall, and people will trample it into the dirt. I’ll turn it into wasteland. No one will prune it or work the soil. Thorns and thistles will take over. I’ll even command the clouds to stop raining on it.
You see, the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel. The people of Judah are the planting he cherished. He looked for justice, but found bloodshed. He listened for righteousness, but heard cries of suffering.
A List of Troubles
Trouble is coming for those who buy up house after house and field after field until there’s no space left and they stand alone as masters of the land. The Lord of hosts told me this himself: ‘Those grand estates will become ruins. Those beautiful mansions will stand empty, with no one living in them.’ Ten acres of vineyard will produce only a few gallons of wine. A whole sack of seed will yield barely a basket of grain.
Trouble is coming for those who get up at dawn hunting for their next drink, who stay up late into the night until they’re drunk with wine. Their parties are filled with harps and lyres, tambourines and flutes, and wine—always wine. But they don’t pay attention to what the Lord is doing. They don’t see what he’s making with his hands.
That’s why my people will be taken captive—because they don’t understand. Their honored leaders will starve. The crowds will die of thirst. The grave has stretched wide its jaws, opened its mouth beyond measure. Down into it will go their nobles and masses, their revelers and partiers. The common person will be humbled. The powerful will be brought low. The eyes of the proud will be forced down.
But the Lord of hosts will be lifted up through his justice. The holy God will show himself holy through his righteousness. Then lambs will graze as if in their own pasture. Strangers will feed among the ruins of the rich.
Trouble is coming for those who drag wickedness along like pulling a cart on ropes, who haul their sin behind them like a heavy load. They sneer and say, ‘Let God hurry up and do his work so we can see it. Let the Holy One of Israel’s plan unfold already, so we’ll know what he’s up to.’
Trouble is coming for those who call evil good and good evil, who turn darkness into light and light into darkness, who make bitter seem sweet and sweet seem bitter. Trouble is coming for those who think they’re so wise, who see themselves as brilliant. Trouble is coming for those who are heroes at drinking wine, champions at mixing strong drinks— who let the guilty go free for a bribe and deny justice to those who’ve done nothing wrong.
So just as fire devours stubble and flames burn up dry grass, their roots will rot and their blossoms will blow away like dust. Why? Because they’ve rejected the law of the Lord of hosts and treated the word of the Holy One of Israel with contempt. That’s why the Lord’s anger burns against his people. He has raised his hand against them and struck them down. The mountains shook. Dead bodies lay like garbage in the streets. And even after all that, his anger hasn’t cooled. His hand is still raised, ready to strike.
The Coming Army
He will raise a signal flag to distant nations. He will whistle for them from the ends of the earth. And look—they’ll come rushing in, quick as lightning. Not one of them will be tired or stumbling.
None will rest or sleep. Their belts won’t come loose, their sandal straps won’t break. Their arrows are razor-sharp. Their bows are strung tight. Their horses’ hooves strike like flint. Their chariot wheels spin like whirlwinds. They roar like lions. They roar like young lions—roaring as they pounce on their prey and drag it off where no one can rescue it. On that day, they will roar over their victims like the crashing sea. Anyone who looks across the land will see only darkness and suffering. Even the light in the sky will be swallowed by shadow.