^10-14 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!