They shall make my vineyard waste, they shall pull off the bark of my fig trees, strip them bare, cast them away, and make the branches white.

Turn pale, ye husbandmen, howl, ye vinedressers, over the wheat, and over the barley, - for perished is the harvest of the field.

Blow ye the trumpet in Zion, and sound an alarm in my holy mountain: let all the inhabitants of the land tremble: for the day of the LORD cometh, for it is nigh at hand;

At their presence the peoples are in anguish; all faces are waxed pale.

Blow the trumpet in Zion, sanctify a fast, call a solemn assembly:

Beat your plow blades into swords, and your pruning knives into spears! Let the frail say, "I am strong!"