Isaiah 231 The oracle on Tyre,—Howl! ye ships of Tarshish, For it is laid too waste to be a haven to enter, From the land of Cyprus, hath it been unveiled to them. 2 Be dumb, ye inhabitants of the Coast,—Whom the merchants of Zidon, passing over the sea, once replenished; 3 Yea on mighty waters, was the grain of Shihor, The harvest of the Nile, was her increase,—And so she became a mart of nations. 4 Turn thou pale, O Zidon, For spoken hath the sea, the fortress of the sea saying,—I have neither been in pangs nor given birth I have neither brought up young men nor promoted virgins. 5 Like the report of Egypt, They shall be in pangs at the like report of Tyre. 6 Pass ye over to Tarshish,—Howl ye inhabitants of the Coast: 7 Is this to you an exultation? Though from ancient day, is her antiquity, Yet shall her own feet carry her away, far off to dwell. 8 Who hath purposed this, against Tyre, The bestower of crowns,—Whose merchants are princes, Her traders the honourable of the earth? 9 Yahweh of hosts, hath purposed it,—To humble the pride of all beauty, To make of little esteem all the honourable of the earth. 10 Pass through thy land as the Nile,—O daughter of Tarshish, there is no restraint any longer! 11 His hand, hath he stretched out over the sea, He hath shaken kingdoms,—Yahweh, hath given command against she Phoenician coast, To destroy her fortresses. 12 Therefore hath he said,—No more, again, do thou exult, Thou violated virgin daughter of Zidon,—To Cyprus, arise and pass over, Even there, shall one find thee no rest. 13 Lo! the land of the Chaldeans, This is the people that was not, Assyria, founded it for the inhabitants of the desert,—They set up its siege-towers, They demolished its palaces Made it a ruin! 14 Howl, ye ships of Tarshish,—For laid waste is your fortress. 15 So shall it be in that day, That Tyre shall be forgotten seventy years, According to the days of a certain king: At the end of seventy years, shall it befall Tyre according to the song of the harlot: 16 Take thou a lyre, Go round the city, O harlot forgotten,—Sweetly touch the strings Lengthen out the song, That thou mayest be called to mind. 17 So shall it be, at the end of seventy years, That Yahweh will visit Tyre, And she will return to her hire,—Yea she will play the harlot—with all the kingdoms of the earth, upon the face of the ground. 18 But her merchandise and her hire, shall be hallowed unto Yahweh, It shall not be stored up, nor hoarded,—For, to them who dwell before Yahweh, shall her merchandise belong, That they may eat to satisfaction And have stately apparel.
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