"Listen to me, O coastlands, and give attention, you peoples from afar. The LORD called me from the womb, from the body of my mother he named my name. He made my mouth like a sharp sword; in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow; in his quiver he hid me away.
Withered and wasting, splintered and sterile.
The branch of my soul was lifeless no doubt;
Roots reaching deep into nothing but drought;
Cut down and bundled into piles of peril.
My soul now a twig, left not up to choice.
I toiled day and night to get back on a tree
But one after another said, “You’re dead to me.”
Then I heard the cry of a Heavenly voice,
“Behold, a Warrior comes to make all things right.”
And he called me by name, gripping his bow;
He took me and made me a polished arrow.
And said, “I’ve made a weapon for a great fight.”
Once a broken branch never valued or priced,
Now a Warrior-fashioned weapon of war.
The mark made by this will remain evermore:
An arrow hidden in the quiver of Christ.