Yet, I, planted thee a precious vine, a wholly true seed,—How then didst thou change thyself towards me, into the degenerate plantings of the alien vine?
Already also, the axe, unto the root of the trees, is being laid,—every tree, therefore, not bringing forth good fruit, is to be hewn down, and, into fire, to be cast.
What could have been done further to my vineyard, That I had not done in it? Why then—When I had waited that it should bring forth grapes, Brought it forth, wild grapes?
To appoint unto the mourners of Zion—To give unto them A chaplet instead of ashes, The oil of joy instead of mourning, The mantle of praise instead of the spirit of dejection,—So shall they be called The oaks of righteousness, The plantation of Yahweh: That he may get himself glory
How canst thou say to thy brother—Brother! let me cast out the mote that is in thine eye,—thyself, the beam in thine own eye, not beholding? Hypocrite! cast out, first, the beam out of thine own eye, and, then, shalt thou see clearly, to cast out, the mote that is in the eye of thy brother.