The Sibyl · a new plain-English translation from the original language
Who dwell around God's city in the inland regions,
and circling even Joppa's mighty wall,
raise themselves up as high as the dark clouds.
No longer shall the trumpet shriek war's clashing din,
nor shall men perish still by raving hostile hands,
but he shall raise trophies over an age of evils.
And there shall come again a man preeminent from heaven,
who stretched out his hands upon the fruit-laden wood,
best of the Hebrews, who once halted the sun,
speaking a fair word with lips undefiled.
Grieve no longer in your heart, O blessed one,
god-born, all-rich, sole and longed-for flower,
good light, and holy, pure, long-desired end,
graceful Judaea, fair city, filled with god-inspired hymns.
No longer shall an unclean foot rage in Bacchic frenzy over your land,
the foot of Greeks who hold their common godless mind;
but glorious children shall hold you in high honor,
and set for you a table with holy songs of praise,
with sacrifices of every kind and prayers held dear to God,
those who out of narrow hardship endured their toils —
the righteous shall rule over greater and gracious, goodly things;
but the wicked, who raised to heaven a lawless tongue,
shall cease their speaking against one another,
and shall be hidden away, until the world is changed.
And from the clouds there shall come a rain of blazing fire;
no longer shall mortals reap the shining grain from earth;
all things shall stand unsown and unplowed, until
men come to know the lord of all, God everlasting, immortal,
and mortal men no longer honor mortal things,
nor dogs and vultures, which Egypt has set up for reverence,
to honor with empty mouths and foolish lips.
The holy earth of the pious alone shall bear all this,
a stream of honey-dripping from the rock, and from the spring,
and ambrosial milk shall flow for all the righteous;
for in one begetter, God alone, supreme above all,
they placed their hope, holding great piety and faith.
But why does my wise mind press these things upon me?
Now I mourn for you piteously, wretched Asia,
and the race of Ionians, Carians, and gold-rich Lydians.
Alas for you, Sardis; alas, lovely Tralles;
alas, Laodicea, fair city — how you shall perish,
destroyed by earthquakes and turned to dust.
For dark Asia, and the gold-rich Lydians too —
the shrine of Artemis at Ephesus, once fast-founded,
by chasms and earthquakes shall one day plunge into the sacred sea,
headlong, as storm-winds overwhelm ships.
And Ephesus, thrown on her back, shall wail, weeping upon the shore,
seeking the temple that stands there no more.
And then, in wrath, the imperishable God who dwells in heaven
shall hurl from the sky a fiery bolt upon the unholy head.