Send ye forth a sickle, For ripened hath harvest, Come in, come down, for filled hath been the press, Overflowed hath wine-presses, For great [is] their wickedness.
And it hath come to pass, As the gathering by the reaper of the standing corn, And his arm the ears reapeth, And it hath come to pass, As the gathering of the ears in the valley of Rephaim,
— ‘A wine-press I have trodden by myself, And of the peoples there is no one with me, And I tread them in mine anger, And I trample them in my fury, Sprinkled is their strength on my garments, And all my clothing I have polluted.
For thus said Jehovah of Hosts, God of Israel, The daughter of Babylon [is] as a threshing-floor, The time of her threshing — yet a little, And come hath the time of her harvest.
Trodden down all my mighty ones hath the Lord in my midst, He proclaimed against me an appointed time, To destroy my young men, A wine-press hath the Lord trodden, To the virgin daughter of Judah.
And I saw, and lo, a white cloud, and upon the cloud [one] sitting like to a son of man, having upon his head a golden crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle;
and out of his mouth doth proceed a sharp sword, that with it he may smite the nations, and he shall rule them with a rod of iron, and he doth tread the press of the wine of the wrath and the anger of God the Almighty,