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 grapesbecause of the ample water.It grew sturdy branchesfit 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 rageand thrown to the ground.The hot east wind shriveled it upand 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 branchesfit for use as a royal scepter!(This is a sad song, a text for singing the blues.)