Psalm 80:8

The Message

Remember how you brought a young vine from Egypt, cleared out the brambles and briers and planted your very own vineyard? You prepared the good earth, you planted her roots deep; the vineyard filled the land. Your vine soared high and shaded the mountains, even dwarfing the giant cedars. Your vine ranged west to the Sea, east to the River. So why do you no longer protect your vine? Trespassers pick its grapes at will; Wild pigs crash through and crush it, and the mice nibble away at what’s left. God-of-the-Angel-Armies, turn our way! Take a good look at what’s happened and attend to this vine. Care for what you once tenderly planted— the vine you raised from a shoot. And those who dared to set it on fire— give them a look that will kill! Then take the hand of your once-favorite child, the child you raised to adulthood. We will never turn our back on you; breathe life into our lungs so we can shout your name!

Cross References

Psalm 60:3

You made your people look doom in the face, then gave us cheap wine to drown our troubles. Then you planted a flag to rally your people, an unfurled flag to look to for courage. Now do something quickly, answer right now, so the one you love best is saved.

Ezekiel 15:6

“So here’s the Message of God, the Master: Like the wood of the vine I selected from among the trees of the forest and used as fuel for the fire, just so I’ll treat those who live in Jerusalem. I am dead set against them. Even though at one time they got out of the fire charred, the fire’s going to burn them up. When I take my stand against them, you’ll realize that I am God. I’ll turn this country into a wilderness because they’ve been faithless.” Decree of God, the Master.

Ezekiel 19:10

Here’s another way to put it: Your mother was like a vine in a vineyard, transplanted alongside streams of water, Luxurious in branches and grapes because of the ample water. It grew sturdy branches fit to be carved into a royal scepter. It grew high, reaching into the clouds. Its branches filled the horizon, and everyone could see it. Then it was ripped up in a rage and thrown to the ground. The hot east wind shriveled it up and stripped its fruit. The sturdy branches dried out, fit for nothing but kindling. Now it’s a stick stuck out in the desert, a bare stick in a desert of death, Good for nothing but making fires, campfires in the desert. Not a hint now of those sturdy branches fit for use as a royal scepter! (This is a sad song, a text for singing the blues.)