“He shall cover His face, that He see not the land; He shall cover His eyes, that He see not this people.” — Paraphrased and theologically inverted from Isaiah 47:3
Hate, greed, and fear—forces both ancient and renewed—walk our world masked as necessity, embraced by many with cultish fervor. Their dominion is not imposed but invited—enthroned by a generation that traded justice for the comfort of certainty, mercy for the illusion of control, and truth for pestilent lies that fester beneath the tongue. In such an age, we speak of freedom while erecting altars to power.
Lacrimae Sanguinis (Tears of Blood) offers no balm. It is not a prayer for deliverance but a record of recognition—set in four movements, each marking a descent through abandonment, distortion, silence, and despair. Divine silence, once borne as mystery, now echoes as judgment. This is no resolution, only the slow, unredemptive unfolding of what we have chosen not to see.
John Martin, The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (c. 1852) oil on canvas, 136.3 cm × 212.3 cm (53.7 in × 83.6 in) Laing Art Gallery, Newcastle upon Tyne
Lacrimae Sanguinis 2025: A Lamentation in Four Movements
By Donald S. Yarab
I.
Lacrimae sanguinis, Animae nigrae hominum terram maculant. They walk not as men, but as shadows unshriven, Each step a silence, each breath a wound. The ground groans beneath the weight of the fallen, And justice, long buried, forgets her name. No trumpet sounds for the guiltless slain, Only the whisper of blood in the dust.¹
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
II.
Hate kindles fires no rain can quell, Greed carves its name in the marrow of kings. Fear is a vulture, circling unborn hopes, Its wings beating lies into trembling hearts. These three—unholy trinity—march undenied,² And temples crack beneath their tread. Where once stood gardens, now only ash— And the breath of God withdraws in sorrow.³
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
III.
No voice comes forth from the cloud or flame, The heavens are sealed in unyielding hush.⁴ The stars avert their gaze, and time forgets its course— Even the winds have ceased to speak His name. Altars stand cold, their offerings stale, And the priest no longer lifts his hands. The silence is not peace, but exile— A stillness too vast for prayer to fill.⁵
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
IV.
He turned His face—and we, our backs.⁶ Not in wrath, but in weary disdain. The mirror cracked, the image lost, And we wander, eyes open yet unseeing.⁷ We build our Babels in crumbling dust, Raise thrones upon bones, call ruin law. Light knocks, but we bolt the gate from within— And call the silence proof He never was.⁸
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
Footnotes:
“Shadows unshriven” / “Justice… forgets her name” — Cf. Psalm 82:6–7 and Isaiah 59:14–15. Echoes of prophetic lament over moral collapse and unreconciled souls.
“Unholy trinity” — An inverted image of Augustine’s De Trinitate: hate, greed, and fear form a perverse sacred order.
“Gardens turned to ash” — Evokes Eden undone. The breath of God (Genesis 2:7) has withdrawn.
“The heavens are sealed” — Amos 8:11–12; Lamentations 3:8. Divine silence as the most damning judgment.
“Silence… not peace, but exile” — Apophatic void, not luminous unknowability. Cf. Isaiah 45:15: Deus absconditus.
“He turned His face” — Inverts the Aaronic blessing (Numbers 6:24–26). A divine turning not in anger, but in sorrowful withdrawal.
“Mirror cracked” — A fall from incomplete vision (1 Corinthians 13:12) into permanent distortion.
“Call the silence proof He never was” — Resonates with Nietzsche’s “God is dead,” here framed as mutual estrangement, not denial.
Note: The image of the soul as stained through inordinate attachment finds classical expression in Summa Theologica I–II, Q.86, Art.1, where Aquinas defines sin’s stain not as a substance, but as a privation of the soul’s brightness—a metaphorical shadow cast when the soul cleaves inordinately to created things, against reason and divine order. In this lamentation, the stain is projected outward: what is blackened within stains the world without.
The content discusses transforming a prophetic lamentation about the corruption of the American justice system into a biblical framework, relating it to Judeo-Christian themes. It emphasizes the corruption of judges influenced by wealth and oligarchs, using biblical imagery and references to emphasize concerns for justice. The work calls for repentance and restoration while echoing biblical prophetic traditions highlighting the importance of righteousness and divine justice, urging readers to recognize the significant consequences of judicial corruption and its societal ramifications.
Recognizing that most Americans may have a familiarity with Judeo-Christian themes, imagery, and language—but little to no awareness of Mesopotamian themes, imagery, and language—I sought to recast my recent prophetic lamentation on the corruption of Justice, The Temples of Utu, into a biblical framework. By doing so, I aimed to ensure that my lamentation on the corruption of the American justice system, particularly the concern that judges and Justices are being purchased by oligarchs and beholden to faction, would resonate more deeply with contemporary readers.
The work found by scrolling further down, A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment, was created by transforming The Temples of Utu: A Contemporary Lament for Justice into a text that more explicitly resonates with the Judeo-Christian tradition. By incorporating biblical references throughout and aligning the themes with scriptural principles, this lamentation follows the prophetic tradition of calling out corruption and pleading for divine justice.
An Audio Reading of Donald S. Yarab’s A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment
To aid in understanding the biblical framework underlying this transformation, the following terms and themes are central to the work:
I. Theological Names and Concepts
El Elyon (אֵל עֶלְיוֹן) – A Hebrew name for God meaning “God Most High.” It first appears in Genesis 14:18-20 with Melchizedek, emphasizing God’s supreme authority and sovereignty over all creation.
Adonai (אֲדֹנָי) – A Hebrew term meaning “my Lord,” traditionally used as a substitute for YHWH out of reverence. It signifies God’s absolute authority and dominion.
El Shaddai (אֵל שַׁדַּי) – Typically translated as “God Almighty,” it first appears in Genesis 17:1 when God makes a covenant with Abraham. It highlights God’s power, might, and provision.
Elohim (אֱלֹהִים) – A plural form used singularly for God in the Hebrew Bible, emphasizing divine power and majesty.
Mammon (μαμμωνᾶς) – An Aramaic term used by Jesus in Matthew 6:24 and Luke 16:13, personifying wealth and material possessions as an opposing force to God. In this work, Mammon represents the corrupting influence of material gain and injustice.
II. Historical and Symbolic References
Babylon – The empire that conquered Jerusalem in 586 BC, destroying Solomon’s Temple and exiling many Judeans. In biblical prophecy, Babylon symbolizes oppressive human power and arrogance that defies God (Isaiah 47:1-11; Jeremiah 50-51; Revelation 18).
Egypt – The nation that enslaved Israel before the Exodus. Egypt is often used as a biblical metaphor for oppression, idolatry, and the worldly systems from which God delivers His people (Exodus 20:2; Deuteronomy 4:20; Hosea 11:1).
Assyria – The empire that conquered the Northern Kingdom of Israel in 722 BC. Known for ruthless expansion and forced resettlement, Assyria is depicted as an instrument of God’s judgment but ultimately doomed for its arrogance (Isaiah 10:5-19; Nahum 3).
Tyre – A Phoenician port city known for its wealth and trade dominance. Biblical prophets condemned Tyre for its pride, greed, and economic exploitation (Ezekiel 27-28; Isaiah 23). In this work, Tyre symbolizes commercial corruption and economic injustice.
Mount Sinai – The sacred mountain where Moses received the Law from God (Exodus 19-20). Sinai represents divine revelation, covenant responsibility, and the foundation of justice.
Sodom – The city destroyed for its wickedness and injustice (Genesis 19:24-25). In prophetic literature, Sodom serves as a symbol of moral corruption and a warning of divine judgment (Isaiah 1:9-10; Ezekiel 16:49-50).
III. Prophetic Tradition and Literary Framework
Biblical Lamentation – This work follows the tradition of biblical lament, particularly seen in Lamentations, the Psalms, and prophetic writings. These laments express grief over national corruption and divine judgment (Lamentations 1:1-4; Psalm 137).
Prophetic Literary Forms – The text incorporates multiple prophetic genres, including:
Lawsuit (rîb) – Where God brings charges against His people (Isaiah 1:2-3; Hosea 4:1).
Lament (qînâ) – Mourning the destruction caused by sin and corruption (Jeremiah 9:17-22; Ezekiel 19).
Restoration Promise – Common in prophetic literature, offering hope after judgment (Jeremiah 31:31-34; Isaiah 61:1-3).
Covenantal Framework – Judges in ancient Israel were not merely legal authorities, but covenant mediators tasked with upholding divine law. Their corruption represents a betrayal of that covenant, mirroring Israel’s repeated failure to uphold God’s justice (Deuteronomy 16:18-20; Isaiah 1:21-23).
Justice for the Oppressed – The recurring emphasis on justice for widows, orphans, and foreigners aligns with the core concerns of biblical prophets, such as:
Amos 5:11-12 – Condemning exploitation of the poor.
Micah 6:8 – Calling for justice, mercy, and humility.
Isaiah 10:1-2 – Warning against unjust laws that oppress the vulnerable.
Apocalyptic Elements – The “Day of Reckoning” section reflects apocalyptic themes, seen in:
Joel 2:1-2 – A warning of impending divine judgment.
Daniel 7:9-14 – God’s ultimate triumph over corrupt rulers.
Revelation 18 – The fall of oppressive systems.
IV. Purpose of This Work
By drawing on these biblical themes, historical symbols, and prophetic traditions, A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment aims to offer a theologically rich meditation on the corruption of justice. It calls for repentance, righteousness, and restoration, echoing the voices of the biblical prophets who spoke against oppression and warned of impending judgment.
For readers wishing to explore the scriptural foundations of this work, a guide to the work labeled as containing in-text biblical citations is available at the button below. Finally, though many have their favorite bibles, I do not hesitate to recommend for studying the Old Testament, Robert Alter’s The Hebrew Bible: A Translation with Commentary. The scholarship, especially in the footnotes, is unmatched. Another useful online resource is biblehub.com – which allows you access to multiple bible translation traditions.
A Prophetic Lamentation: A Biblical Cry for Righteous Judgment
A Lament for the Perversion of Judgment and the Abandonment of Righteousness
Part I: The Forsaking of Righteousness
The First Turning from Truth
In the days when righteousness stood firm in the land, when the Law of The LORD was a lamp unto the feet of judges, the courts of justice were as sanctuaries where truth dwelled. The judges, servants of El Elyon—The LORD, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the One who brought Israel out of Egypt and wrote His covenant in fire upon Sinai, sat in chambers of cedar and stone, their hands unstained, their judgment righteous. The widow, the orphan, and the foreigner approached without fear, for the Law was written by the finger of Elohim upon tablets of stone, and justice flowed like the waters of Shiloah through the gates of the city.
But in time, whispers arose from the chambers of power. First to one judge, then another. Golden whispers, honeyed promises, from the lips of those who dwelled in palaces of privilege. And some turned their ears to listen.
From the houses of the mighty came messengers bearing gifts wrapped in fine linen, bearing words that concealed their true purpose. And the first judge who accepted such offerings felt the scales within his heart shift, so slightly he did not perceive it. But The LORD perceived it, as He perceived the wickedness of the sons of Eli, whose hands were stained with bribes and whose lips defiled the altar. The LORD, before whom no falsehood can stand, whose eyes search the hearts of men.
Yet the voice of Adonai grew fainter in the halls of judgment, as the mighty pressed their thumbs upon the sacred scales of Moses.
The Widow’s Cause Rejected
When the widow came before the seat of judgment, Her cause was just, her plea righteous. But he who wronged her wore the seal of the rulers, And silver had changed the words of the Law.
The judge spoke with a tongue not his own: “The letter of the Law says thus and thus, Yet its spirit is silenced beneath my tongue.” And so the widow departed in sackcloth.
She lifted her voice in the gates of the city: “Where is Thy justice, O LORD of Hosts? Thy servants speak with deceitful lips, Thy Law is sold for pieces of silver.”
But no thunder came from Mount Sinai, For the judges had stopped their ears with gold.
Part II: The Spreading Abomination
The Choosing of the Corrupt
As the seasons of harvest passed, it came to be that when a judge returned to the dust, those who appointed his successor sought not for wisdom, not for righteousness, not for fear of The LORD. Instead, they sought those who had bowed before the mighty, who had pledged themselves in secret chambers to uphold not the Law as it was given through Moses, but the interests of those who elevated them.
And so the courts of judgment, one by one, were filled with those who had sold their birthright for a bowl of pottage before ever taking the seat of judgment. The words of their oaths remained the same, the ceremonies unchanged, but the fear of El Shaddai had departed from the administration of justice.
Then came the spirit of Mammon, whom Solomon warned against, moving through the corridors of power. Not with swift judgment did he strike, but with slow corruption, a leprosy of the soul that left its victims outwardly clean but inwardly defiled, wearing the robes of righteousness while serving the lords of unrighteousness. And Elohim looked down, as He did in the days of Noah, and beheld that the wickedness of man had multiplied, and that the thoughts of his heart were only evil continually.
The Judgment Purchased with Silver
Behold how they come with scrolls of precedent in hand, Twisting the words of the prophets to serve new masters. The Law speaks what they command it to say, The statutes bend like bulrushes in the wind.
Mammon walks boldly among the pillars of justice, His touch light as silver upon the outstretched palm. Each judgment purchased furthers the transgression, Each verdict for sale defiles the holy sanctuary.
The judges feast at the tables of the merchants of Tyre, The masters of wealth whisper close in their ears: “This cause favors our interests,” they murmur, “This ruling preserves the power we hold dear.”
And the people cry out to the Holy One of Israel, But His face is turned away from His defiled courts.
Part III: The New Order of Iniquity
The Temple Defiled
And so it came to pass that the courts of justice no longer stood as bulwarks against wickedness, but as instruments of those who ruled from behind veils. The judges spoke still of righteousness, wore still the robes of impartiality, but their eyes looked ever to their masters for instruction. Their words were shaped not by the Law of Moses, but by the whispers of corruption.
The scales that once weighed all causes righteously now tipped by design. The light that once revealed truth now cast deceptive shadows. And those who came seeking justice found instead a marketplace where judgments were bought and sold like cattle and grain in the markets of Jerusalem.
The Serpent, who from Eden has twisted the words of Elohim, wound himself around the pillars of judgment like the bronze serpent once lifted in the wilderness. His forked tongue spoke through the mouths of judges, uttering words sweet as honey yet bitter in the belly, verdicts that invoked the sacred Law while rendering it void and without effect.
The Perverted Judgment
The scales of judgment hang crooked now, Weighted with bribes and heavy with deceit. The mantle of justice has become a shroud, Pulled tight by hands that serve the powerful.
The Serpent coils around the judgment seat, His ancient form hidden beneath holy garments. “Justice,” they proclaim, while dealing in oppression, “The Law,” they invoke, while breaking its covenant.
The mighty approach the courts without fear, For they have purchased favor with unrighteous mammon. The poor approach with trembling upon their faces, For they know the sentence before the cause is heard.
So the pillars of justice, hewn by the hands of the faithful, Were carved anew by the chisels of corruption. The covenant of right judgment lay broken upon the steps, As the people watched their inheritance dissolve like morning dew.
Part IV: The Breaking of the Covenant
The Covenant Forsaken
Thus was the covenant between The LORD and His people defiled. Not by the sword of Babylon, nor by the chariots of Egypt, nor by the cunning of the Assyrians, but by the slow poisoning of the wells of justice. As the cycles of seedtime and harvest passed, the people came to know that the courts offered no refuge for the oppressed, that the words of judges held no truth, that judgment measured not righteousness but privilege.
And in this knowing, the foundations of society began to crumble. For what is Law if not covenant? What is justice if not faithfulness? What is order if not the keeping of sacred promises?
The rulers and mighty men who had captured the courts of judgment did not see the doom they had wrought. They feasted upon their victory over righteousness, their conquest of the scales. They did not hear the voice of Adonai, gathering like thunder upon the mountains, as in the days of Sinai, preparing for the day of visitation.
For when justice fails, the whirlwind awaits. When Law becomes a snare rather than a protection, the people cast aside its yoke. When righteousness is no longer honored in the courts, it cries out from the dust like the blood of Abel, calling for vengeance before the throne of El Elyon.
The Harvest of Corruption
Now Jerusalem trembles upon foundations of sand, The courts of judgment stand as whitewashed tombs. What was established through generations of faithfulness, Falls to ruin through seasons of corruption.
The people no longer call upon the name of The LORD in the courts, For His servants have made it bitter on the tongue. They turn instead to other deliverers, darker powers, Gods of vengeance, spirits of retribution.
The rulers sleep uneasy in their chambers, For they have slain the guardian of their peace. In purchasing the Law, they rendered it powerless, In perverting justice, they broke its authority.
And The LORD cried out, as He did through Amos: “But let justice roll down like waters, And righteousness like an ever-flowing stream!” But the stream had dried, the land was parched, and the people drank the wine of oppression instead.
Epilogue: The Prophetic Warning
The Voice of the Remnant
Those who remember, who still hold the Law sacred in their hearts, who recall the days when the courts of judgment shone with uncorrupted light, raise their voices in the wilderness of injustice.
They speak of what was lost, of scales that balanced, of laws that protected the least among the people. They warn of what comes when the rulers believe they have placed themselves beyond the judgment of El Shaddai.
For the LORD watches still, though His servants have forsaken Him. The Holy One of Israel sees still, though His courts have been corrupted. And the day will come when righteousness returns to the gates of the city, when justice again flows like living water.
But the price of restoration will be bitter, paid in the coin of tribulation. For what is defiled cannot be cleansed without fire, as Sodom was overturned in fire and brimstone, and the altars of Baal were cast down in the days of Elijah.
The Day of Reckoning
Remember this in days to come, When the storms of judgment break upon the land, When faction rises against faction in the ruined streets, When the rulers tremble before the dispossessed:
It began with the perversion of judgment, It began with the purchasing of truth. It began when the courts of the LORD Became marketplaces for injustice.
And those who turned their backs on righteousness, Who sold the Law for temporary gain, Who twisted the statutes of the Most High, Will cry out: “How could we have known?”
But their hands are not clean. For they defiled the sanctuary, stone by stone. They corrupted the judges, word by word. They profaned justice, verdict by verdict.
And the LORD shall arise, as He did at Sinai, in fire and storm, As He did at Babylon, with writing upon the wall. Neither silver nor rulers will shield them; They and their wealth shall melt like wax before the flame.
Justice, in any age, is a fragile thing. When upheld, it brings order, clarity, and fairness. When corrupted, it festers unseen at first, then collapses with ruinous consequence. The Temples of Utu: A Contemporary Lamentation for Justice is a prophetic lament cast in the voice and style of an ancient civilization, yet it speaks with painful familiarity to those who observe the world today.
Ningišzida, with snakes emanating from his shoulders, on a relief of Gudea. Photograph by Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP (Glasg) CC BY-SA 4.0.
This work draws upon the mythic imagery of Mesopotamian religion, invoking gods who, for the people of Sumer and Akkad, embodied cosmic forces—truth and deception, judgment and decay. Though their temples have long crumbled to dust, their symbols remain potent warnings for the rise and fall of justice in human society.
Be aware, however, the Lamentation does not reflect the historic reality of how and where justice was actually dispensed in ancient Mesopotamia. A rudimentary understanding of the justice system, such as we understand it, is discussed in early scholarship, such as Samuel Noah Kramer’s The Summerians: Their History, Culture and Character (1963/1971), for those who are interested in the basics (see for instance pp. 83-88). If truly interested in historical reality, seek out more updated, contemporary scholarship! It will be worthwhile!
Who Are the Gods Named in This Lamentation?
Utu (Shamash): The Mesopotamian god of the sun, justice, and truth. Utu was depicted as the divine judge who saw all things, presiding over oaths and fair dealings. His light illuminated deception, and his scales weighed the hearts of the people. When justice was upheld, his temples shone golden in the sun; when corruption took root, his light dimmed.
Namtar: The herald of death and bringer of plagues, Namtar represents creeping inevitability—the slow, inexorable spread of decay. In this lamentation, he is not an agent of quick destruction, but of corruption’s quiet advance through the halls of justice, spreading like a sickness that hollows out institutions from within.
Ningišzida: A chthonic (underworld) deity associated with serpents, passage between worlds, and the boundary between truth and falsehood. He coils around the pillars of justice, his forked tongue shaping words that once carried fairness into tools of deception. His presence signals the transformation of law into an instrument of the powerful, a mask of legitimacy covering injustice.
Enlil: The great god of storms and divine authority. Though absent for much of the lamentation, his presence gathers at the end, a harbinger of reckoning. If Utu is the impartial light of justice, Enlil is the storm that follows when justice is betrayed.
These figures serve as more than mythological references—they embody timeless realities. The slow erosion of judicial integrity, the rise of factionalism over fairness, the perversion of law into a tool of the mighty—these are not merely the concerns of an ancient civilization but of every society that has ever built temples to justice, and of every people who have watched those temples fall.
As you read (or listen to) The Temples of Utu, consider not only the past, but the world around you. Are the scales of justice still balanced? Or has the light of Utu grown dim once more?
An Reading of Donald S. Yarab’s “The Temples of Utu: “A Lamentation for Justice”
The Temples of Utu: A Lamentation for Justice
Part I: The Silencing of the Scales The First Turning Away
In the days of order, when truth stood firm in the public square and the scales weighed all hearts with equal measure, the temples of Utu shone golden in the light of the sun. The judges, priests of Utu—Utu, whose eye sees all deceptions, whose light banishes shadow—sat in chambers of cedar and stone, their hands unstained, their vision clear. The weak approached without trembling, for the law was etched in tablets that none might alter, and justice flowed like water through the streets of the city.
But in time, whispers came upon the night wind. First to one priest, then another. Golden whispers, honeyed promises, from the lips of those who dwelled in towers of privilege. And some turned their ears to listen.
From the towers of the mighty came emissaries bearing gifts that were not called bribes, bearing words that were not called threats. And the first priest of Utu who accepted such offerings felt the scales within his heart shift, so slightly he did not mark it. But Utu marked it. Utu, whose eye sees all deceptions, whose light banishes shadow.
Yet Utu's voice grew fainter in the halls of judgment, as the mighty pressed their thumbs upon his sacred scales.
The First Injustice
When the widow came before the seat of judgment, Her cause was just, her claim was true. But he who robbed her wore the sigil of the faction, And gold had changed the color of the law.
The priest of Utu spoke with borrowed tongue: "The letter of the tablet says thus and thus, Though its spirit cries otherwise." And so the widow left with empty hands.
She raised her voice to Utu in the square: "Where is thy justice, Lord of Truth? Thy priests speak with forked tongues, Thy scales are weighted with gold."
But no answer came from the heavens, For the priests had muffled Utu's ears with silk.
Part II: The Spreading Corruption The Selecting of the Loyal
As the cycles of the moon passed, it came to be that when a priest of Utu returned to the earth, those who chose his successor looked not for wisdom, not for fairness, not for devotion to the scales of truth. Instead, they sought those who had bowed before the factions, who had pledged themselves in secret chambers to uphold not the law as it was written, but the interests of those who appointed them.
And so the temples of Utu, one by one, were filled with those who had sold their sight before ever taking the seat of judgment. The words remained the same, the rituals unchanged, but the spirit had fled from the body of justice.
Then came Namtar, herald of plagues and divine judgment, moving through the corridors of power. Not with swift death did he strike, but with slow corruption, a disease of the soul that left its victims standing but hollow, wearing the robes of justice while serving the lords of greed.
The Purchased Judgment
See how they come with scrolls of precedent, Twisting ancient words to serve new masters. The tablet says what they wish it to say, The law bends like reeds in the wind.
Namtar walks among the pillars of justice, His touch light as coin upon the palm. Each judgment purchased furthers the contagion, Each verdict for sale spreads the plague.
The merchants of discord dine at the judges' tables, The priests of faction whisper in their ears. "This cause favors our patrons," they murmur, "This ruling advances our creed."
And the people cry out to Shamash, to Utu, But the god of justice has turned his face away.
Part III: The New Order of the Scales The Temples Transformed
And so it came to pass that the temples of Utu no longer stood as bulwarks against chaos, but as instruments of those who ruled from shadow. The priests spoke still of justice, wore still the robes of impartiality, but their eyes looked ever to their masters for guidance. Their words were shaped not by the tablets of law, but by the whispers of faction.
The scales that once weighed all hearts equally now tipped by design. The light that once revealed truth now cast strategic shadows. And those who came seeking justice found instead a marketplace where outcomes were traded like cloth and grain in the bazaar.
Ningišzida, serpent god of the underworld who knows the passage between life and death, between truth and falsehood, wound himself around the pillars of the temple. His forked tongue spoke through the mouths of judges, words that seemed just but served injustice, verdicts that spoke of law while mocking its purpose.
And the people learned that there were two laws in the land: one for the mighty, another for the meek.
The Twisted Scales
The scales of Utu hang crooked now, Weighted with bribes and heavy with deceit. The blindfold of justice has become a hood, Pulled tight by hands that serve the powerful.
Ningišzida coils around the judgment seat, His serpent form hidden beneath official robes. "Justice," they proclaim, while dealing in its absence, "The law," they intone, while breaking its heart.
The mighty approach the temple without fear, For they have purchased indulgence in advance. The weak approach with dread upon their faces, For they know the verdict before the case is heard.
The tablets of law remain upon the wall, But the words change meaning at the touch of gold.
Part IV: The Unraveling The Breaking of the Covenant
Thus was the covenant between the people and the law undone. Not by decree, not by conquest, but by the slow poisoning of the wells of justice. As the cycles of the sun passed, the people came to know that the temples of Utu offered no sanctuary, that the words of his priests held no truth, that the scales of judgment measured not justice but advantage.
And in this knowing, the bindings of society began to fray. For what is law if not promise? What is justice if not trust? What is order if not the belief that truth will prevail against falsehood?
The factions that had captured the temples of Utu did not see the doom they had wrought. They celebrated their victory over impartiality, their conquest of the scales. They did not hear the whispers of Enlil, god of wind and storm, gathering his breath for the tempest to come.
For when justice fails, chaos awakens. When law becomes weapon rather than shield, the people take up arms of their own. When truth is no longer honored in the temples, it finds voice in the streets.
The Price of Betrayal
Now the city trembles on foundations of sand, The temples of justice stand as hollow shells. What was built through centuries of wisdom, Falls to ruin through seasons of corruption.
The people no longer speak the name of Utu, For his priests have made it bitter on the tongue. They turn instead to other gods, darker gods, Gods of vengeance, gods of fire.
The mighty sleep uneasy in their beds, For they have slain the guardian of their peace. In purchasing the law, they rendered it worthless, In bending justice, they broke its spine.
And Enlil gathers the winds of retribution, For no society stands when its pillars are rotten.
Epilogue: The Warning The Voice of Memory
Those who remember, who still hold truth sacred in their hearts, who recall the days when the temples of Utu shone with uncorrupted light, raise their voices in the twilight of justice. They speak of what was lost, of scales that balanced, of laws that served all equally. They warn of what comes when the mighty believe they have placed themselves beyond judgment.
For Utu watches still, though his priests have forsaken him. Shamash sees still, though his temples have been corrupted. And the day will come when light returns to the chambers of darkness, when truth again flows through the veins of justice.
But the price of restoration will be bitter, paid in the coin of upheaval. For what is corrupted cannot be cleansed without fire.
The Future Reckoning
Remember this in days to come, When the storms of chaos break upon the land, When faction fights faction in the ruined streets, When the mighty tremble before the dispossessed:
It began with the silencing of the scales, It began with the purchasing of truth. It began when the temples of Utu Became marketplaces for injustice.
And those who turned their backs on truth, Who sold the scales for temporary gain, Who twisted the tablets of sacred law, Will cry out: "How could we have known?"
But their hands are not clean. For they desecrated the temples, stone by stone. They corrupted the judges, word by word. They unmade justice, verdict by verdict.
And when Utu returns to claim his throne, Neither gold nor faction will shield them from his light.
The text explores the myth of Ninurta and the contemporary retelling of Azag’s story, emphasizing themes of power, complicity, and the consequences of forgetting history, blending prose and verse to convey a timeless lamentation.
Cuneiform tablet: nir-gal lu e-NE, balag to Ninurta Seleucid or Parthian Period, ca. 2nd–1st century BC Mesopotamia, probably from Babylon (modern Hillah) Clay tablet inscribed with a hymn of praise to Ninurta, the storm god and vanquisher of Asag, the demon of disease. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Object No. 86.11.349 (Public Domain Image – Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art)
On the Inspiration for The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation
Inspiration often comes suddenly and from unexpected sources. While rereading Samuel Noah Kramer’s The Sumerians: Their History, Culture, and Character (1963/1971), I came across a passage recounting the myth of Ninurta, “the god of the stormy south wind,” who in battle destroyed Asag (Azag), “the demon of sickness and disease, whose abode is in the kur, or netherworld” (p. 151).
This passage immediately sparked a question: How would the story of Azag’s heir unfold in the modern age of plague and divisive politics? And how might it be told in the style of a Sumerian lamentation or myth?
The result is a hybrid of prose and verse, a structure reminiscent of ancient lamentations, epic chronicles, and prophetic texts. The prose sections serve as a narrative scaffold, unfolding the events and guiding the reader through the cycle of tyranny, reckoning, and return. The verse distills the emotional and symbolic essence of these events into stark, prophetic utterances, in keeping with the brevity and weight of traditional lamentation poetry.
By blending these forms, The House of Azag mirrors the ancient mode of storytelling in which history, myth, and warning are inseparable. It is both a retelling and a foretelling, a meditation on the cycles of power, complicity, and ruin—and the price a people pay when they forget the past.
An Audio Reading of D.S. Yarab’s The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation
The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation
Part I: The First Reign
The Time of Pestilence
In the days of turmoil, when truth was cast into the dust and the air itself grew thick with sorrow, there arose a ruler from the House of Azag—Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta, yet never truly vanquished. His tongue dripped venom, his hand withered the harvest, and his breath carried pestilence upon the wind. The multitudes, fevered and blind, hailed his coming, for they had forgotten the old warnings. They did not recall the tale, the curse, the name:
From the House of Azag, Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta.
And so, in his first reign, he set forth a sacrifice—one not of fire nor incense, but of breath and blood, of silence and mourning, that the land itself might wail beneath his shadow.
The Reign of Plague
He, of the House of Azag, heir to ruin, Crowned in blight and anointed in ash, Raised his hand, and the heavens grew silent, Breathed his word, and the earth was unmade.
Fevered winds bore his whispered decree, A covenant sealed in the shroud of the dead. And they, the lost, the beguiled, the willing, Bowed before the plague-born throne.
His altars dripped not with oil nor myrrh, But with breathless sighs and broken names. And still they called him savior, still they knelt, Though the air itself was thick with wailing.
The Judgment
Thus was the land cast into shadow, And the wise were scorned, the healers undone. Not by sword nor by fire, but by silence, Did the House of Azag reign.
Part II: The Fall and the Interregnum
The Elder Warrior’s Time
And so it came to pass that after the years of pestilence, when the land was burdened with sorrow and the cries of the forsaken rose to the heavens, an old warrior took up the mantle of the fallen city. He was a man of the elder years, not swift but steadfast, not mighty in arms but resolute in purpose. And he stood against the darkness, bearing the weight of the withered earth upon his back.
He drove out the ruler of the House of Azag—not by blade nor by fire, but by the will of the people, who in their suffering turned against the master of plague. The temples of deception cracked, the halls of power shuddered, and the great beast was cast into exile, retreating to the shadows of the wastelands.
Yet the abominable beast does not slumber.
The Warrior’s Triumph
He, the warrior of elder years, stood firm, His hands worn, his voice a beacon. And the people, weary of death and despair, Turned from the House of Azag.
The tyrant fell, his name a whisper, His throne an empty husk of ruin. And for a time, the land breathed free, And the winds carried no plague.
Part III: The Second Reign
The Return of Wrath
But the abominable beast does not die. Even as the warrior sought to mend the broken walls, the deceiver’s voice slithered through the ruins. He whispered of old glories, of stolen kingdoms, of vengeance against the weak. He promised dominion to the cruel, riches to the corrupt, and absolution to the faithless. And in the dark corners of the land, where grievance festered, where truth was forgotten, and where justice was mocked, they listened.
And the warrior—burdened by years, by the weight of a land divided—fought not with sword or fire, but with weary breath and reasoned word. And they laughed, for reason had no purchase in the ears of the blind.
Thus, through falsity and oath-breaking, through fear and fury, the House of Azag rose once more. And this time, not in sickness, but in wrath.
The Return of the Abominable Beast
He, of the House of Azag, whisperer in shadow, Spoke in silvered lies, and the deaf gave answer. He stirred the dust, and the bitter took arms, He spread his hand, and the oath-breakers swore.
Not by plague, but by vengeance, he came, Not with fever, but with fire. The halls of wisdom he razed, The scribes he silenced, the truth he unmade.
Part IV: The Willing Hands
The People’s Bargain
And when he, of the House of Azag—Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta, called forth his name from the abyss, they who had once trembled at his touch did not recoil. They did not remember the pestilence, nor the wailing of their own dead. Instead, they gathered at the gates, voices raised in fervor, hands outstretched not in defiance, but in welcome.
For he did not come as he had before, cloaked in sickness and ruin. This time, he came bearing gifts—promises of glories unearned, of burdens lifted from their shoulders, of enemies cast into the void. He did not call them to serve, but to rule. He did not ask them to sacrifice, but to consume.
And so they bent the knee, not in chains, but in hunger. Not from fear, but from desire.
And the warrior, standing upon the walls, cried out: “Have you forgotten?”
But they turned their faces from him.
The Willing Betrayal
He, of the House of Azag, called to the lost, And they answered, not with dread, but with praise. For he did not come with pestilence, But with crowns of dust and golden lies.
He whispered: “The land is yours.” And they rejoiced. He promised: “The labor is no longer yours.” And they knelt. He declared: “The past is a burden. Remember it not.” And they cast their own memories into the fire.
Epilogue: The Consequence
The Reckoning to Come
Thus, the gates were flung open, not by the tyrant’s might, but by the hands of the desperate and the blind. They, who had suffered under his reign, now lifted him upon their shoulders, crying, “He is the chosen! He will restore what was stolen!”
But there was nothing to restore. What they had lost, they had cast away.
And when the reckoning came, they wailed once more, Crying out, “How could we have known?”
But their hands were not clean.
For they had built the throne, brick by brick. They had paved the way, stone by stone.
And when the monstrous beast took his seat, He did not need to command them. They carried out his will before he spoke it.
Winter Lament is a short musical composition inspired by an older poem I wrote years ago. In preparing it for a new musical setting with the assistance of Udio.com, I made a few adjustments and added some “oh oh” lead-in lyrics. I’ve found that modern musical genres on Udio often benefit from lyrical elements such as “oh ohs,” “hey heys,” and/or “yea yeas,” so I’ve learned to incorporate them where they enhance the piece.
WINTER LAMENT (Lyrics by Donald S. Yarab)
This composition is the first of four seasonal pieces I plan to set to music—a project clearly inspired by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, which I listened to incessantly during my college years so many decades ago. While I may not possess Vivaldi’s genius, I find myself with the time now to explore this creative endeavor. Unfortunately, I can no longer compose music myself—my saxophone playing skills have long since faded, my keyboard abilities are modest at best, and my youngest brother is the guitarist of the family. Thus, I rely on Udio and my prompts to bring these compositions to life, though it often takes numerous attempts before I find a result that resonates.
The current video serves as a placeholder until I can source better imagery, but it suffices for now. Also contemplating retitling the work “February’s Calling,” from the first line of the refrain/chorus. The phrase “February’s calling” is employed as an insistent and contrasting metaphor to emphasize the emotional tension between the harsh, cold realities of winter and the speaker’s longing for warmth and companionship.
In any event, given the heat of August, I thought we might all appreciate the cooling sensation offered by the winter verses and images.