And He hath judged between the nations, And hath given a decision to many peoples, And they have beat their swords to ploughshares, And their spears to pruning-hooks, Nation doth not lift up sword unto nation, Nor do they learn any more -- war.

For before harvest, when the flower is perfect, And the blossom is producing unripe fruit, Then hath one cut the sprigs with pruning hooks, And the branches he hath turned aside, cut down.

And I make it a waste, It is not pruned, nor arranged, And gone up have brier and thorn, And on the thick clouds I lay a charge, From raining upon it rain.

Because of thy anger towards Me, And thy noise -- it came up into Mine ears, I have put My hook in thy nose, And My bridle in thy lips, And I have caused thee to turn back In the way in which thou camest.