Jeremiah: The Weeping Prophet
He stands alone on the scorched hills above Jerusalem , cloak torn by thorns and kings alike, eyes already red from forty years of unshed tears. The city beneath him is a smoking skeleton—golden temple melted into slag, walls breached like a shattered ribcage, the air thick with the stench of burning cedar and unburied dead. And Jeremiah weeps. Not the polite glistening of a funeral. Not the dignified single tear of a priest. He weeps like a man whose very bones have turned to salt water. “Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain daughter of my people!” He means it literally. He wants to bleed tears until the valleys flood, until the Kidron runs crimson with grief, until there is no more dryness left in him—because only then might the horror finally be enough. For four decades he walked those streets with a heart flayed open. Barefoot in the palace courts. Neck in the stocks while children pelted him with dung. Lowe...
