And, thy people, shall all of them, be righteous, To times age-abiding, shall they possess, the land,—The sprout of mine own planting, The work of mine own hands,—That I may get myself glory.
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
These are they—who, in your love-feasts, are hidden rocks, as they fare sumptuously together, fearlessly, themselves, shepherding,—clouds without water, by winds swept along, trees autumnal, fruitless, twice dead, uprooted,