“They crown kings, but without asking me.
They set up princes but don’t let me in on it.
Instead, they make idols, using silver and gold,
idols that will be their ruin.
Throw that gold calf-god on the trash heap, Samaria!
I’m seething with anger against that rubbish!
How long before they shape up?
And they’re Israelites!
A sculptor made that thing—
it’s not God.
That Samaritan calf
will be broken to bits.
Look at them! Planting wind-seeds,
they’ll harvest tornadoes.
Wheat with no head
produces no flour.
And even if it did,
strangers would gulp it down.
Israel is swallowed up and spit out.
Among the pagans they’re a piece of junk.
They trotted off to Assyria:
Why, even wild donkeys stick to their own kind,
but donkey-Ephraim goes out and pays to get lovers.
Now, because of their whoring life among the pagans,
I’m going to gather them together and confront them.
They’re going to reap the consequences soon,
feel what it’s like to be oppressed by the big king.