Classic Poem

O elders of a wicked land,
O people born in evil coasts,
I weary, saith the Lord of Hosts,
Of incense waved by sinner's hand.

I weary of the blood of beasts,
The blackened altars crowned with flame,
The loud hosannas to my name,
The sabbaths, moons and stated feasts.

Your lifted hands I hold abhorred,
So full are they of blood and snares;
Yea, when ye make your many prayers,
I will not hear them, saith the Lord.

Behold, your land is desolate,
Your cities crumbled, wall and tower;
The stranger sits within your bower
And eats the fruit your fathers ate.

Go wash you; make you white as snow;
Forsake your refuges of lies;
Deal justly; hear the widow's cries;
Console the orphan in his woe.

Repent; tread softly; walk in fears;
Pray meekly in your secret place;
Seek naught beside your Maker's grace;
And seek that carefully with tears.

So shall your princes rule anew,
Your counsellors arise from death;
I promise it, Jehovah saith,
And all my promises are true.