Isaiah 51:9The MessageWake up, wake up, flex your muscles, God! Wake up as in the old days, in the long ago. Didn’t you once make mincemeat of Rahab, dispatch the old chaos-dragon? And didn’t you once dry up the sea, the powerful waters of the deep, And then made the bottom of the ocean a road for the redeemed to walk across? In the same way God’s ransomed will come back, come back to Zion cheering, shouting, Joy eternal wreathing their heads, exuberant ecstasies transporting them— and not a sign of moans or groans. See the chapter |
40 Cross References
We’ve been hearing about this, God, all our lives. Our fathers told us the stories their fathers told them, How single-handedly you weeded out the godless from the fields and planted us, How you sent those people packing but gave us a fresh start. We didn’t fight for this land; we didn’t work for it—it was a gift! You gave it, smiling as you gave it, delighting as you gave it.
Get up, God! Are you going to sleep all day? Wake up! Don’t you care what happens to us? Why do you bury your face in the pillow? Why pretend things are just fine with us? And here we are—flat on our faces in the dirt, held down with a boot on our necks. Get up and come to our rescue. If you love us so much, Help us!
Suddenly the Lord was up on his feet like someone roused from deep sleep, shouting like a drunken warrior. He hit his enemies hard, sent them running, yelping, not daring to look back. He disqualified Joseph as leader, told Ephraim he didn’t have what it takes, And chose the Tribe of Judah instead, Mount Zion, which he loves so much. He built his sanctuary there, resplendent, solid and lasting as the earth itself. Then he chose David, his servant, handpicked him from his work in the sheep pens. One day he was caring for the ewes and their lambs, the next day God had him shepherding Jacob, his people Israel, his prize possession. His good heart made him a good shepherd; he guided the people wisely and well.
So wake up! Rub the sleep from your eyes! Up on your feet, Jerusalem! You’ve drunk the cup God handed you, the strong drink of his anger. You drank it down to the last drop, staggered and collapsed, dead-drunk. And nobody to help you home, no one among your friends or children to take you by the hand and put you in bed. You’ve been hit with a double dose of trouble —does anyone care? Assault and battery, hunger and death —will anyone comfort? Your sons and daughters have passed out, strewn in the streets like stunned rabbits, Sleeping off the strong drink of God’s anger, the rage of your God.
God has taken a solemn oath, an oath he means to keep: “Never again will I open your grain-filled barns to your enemies to loot and eat. Never again will foreigners drink the wine that you worked so hard to produce. No. The farmers who grow the food will eat the food and praise God for it. And those who make the wine will drink the wine in my holy courtyards.”
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