Thrust ye in the vintage knife, for, grown ripe, is the vintage,—Go in, tread down, for full is the winepress, flow over do the vats, for abundant is their wickedness.
A winepress, have I trodden, alone, And of the peoples, there was no man with me. So I trod them down in mine anger, And trampled upon then, in mine indignation,—And their life-blood besprinkled my garments, And all mine apparel, I defiled;
For, thus, saith Yahweh of hosts, God of Israel, The daughter of Babylon, is like a threshing, floor at the time of treading her: Yet a little, and the time of harvest shall overtake her.
My Lord, hath flouted at all my magnates, in my midst, He hath called against me a host, to crush my young men,—A winepress, hath My Lord trodden, to the virgin, the daughter of Judah.
And I saw, and lo! a white cloud, and, upon the cloud, one sitting like unto a son of man, having, upon his head, a crown of gold, and, in his hand, a sharp sickle.
and, out of his mouth, is going forth a sharp sword, that, therewith, he may smite the nations,—and, he, shall shepherd them with a sceptre of iron, and, he, treadeth the wine-press of the wrath of the anger of God the Almighty.
And it shall come to pass—That, as the harvestman gathereth standing corn, And with his arm—the ears, he reapeth, Yea it shall come to pass—That, so, shall he be who gleaneth ears, in the vale of Rephaim;