Two men stood in the ashes of the world. Baruch and Jeremiah — the scribe and the prophet — whose hearts had been found pure from sin, who had not been captured when the city fell. They tore their garments. They wept. They mourned. They fasted for seven days.

On the seventh day, the word of God came to Baruch with a command that split the two men apart forever. "Tell Jeremiah to go with the captives to Babylon," God said. "But you — remain here amid the desolation of Zion. I will show you what will befall at the end of days."

Jeremiah departed with the people. Baruch returned alone to the gates of the ruined Temple and sat down in the wreckage. And from the depths of his grief, he composed the most devastating lament in all of Jewish apocalyptic literature.

<i>"Blessed is he who was not born. Or he who, having been born, has died. But as for us who live — woe unto us, because we see the afflictions of Zion."</i>

He called every dark creature to join his mourning. Sirens from the sea. Lilin — the night demons — from the desert. Shedim (demons) and dragons from the forests. "Awake and gird yourselves for mourning! Take up the dirges with me! Make lamentation with me!"

Then he turned his grief outward, commanding the entire natural world to stop:

<i>"Farmers, sow no more! Earth, why do you give your harvest? Keep your sustenance within you. Vine, why do you give your wine? No offering will ever again be made in Zion. Heavens, withhold your dew. Open not the treasuries of rain. Sun, withhold your light. Moon, extinguish yourself — for why should light rise again where the light of Zion is darkened?"</i>

He forbade joy itself. Bridegrooms, do not enter. Brides, do not adorn yourselves. Women, do not pray for children — for the barren shall rejoice above all others, and those who have sons shall have only anguish. Why bear children in pain, only to bury them in grief?

Then came the most searing image of all. Baruch turned to the priests: "Take the keys of the sanctuary and cast them into the height of heaven. Give them to God and say: <i>'Guard Your house Yourself — for we are found to be false stewards.'</i>" And to the virgins who wove the Temple's fine linen and silk with gold of Ophir: "Take everything and cast it into the fire. Let the flames carry it back to the One who made it — lest the enemy get possession of it."

Finally, Baruch turned his fury on Babylon itself. "If you had prospered while Zion still stood in her glory, the grief would have been great enough. But now? The grief is infinite. The lamentation is measureless. You prosper while Zion lies desolate."

He wished the earth had ears and the dust had a heart — so they could descend to Sheol and announce to the dead: <i>"Blessed are you more than we who live."</i>

But even as his lament reached its darkest depth, a warning threaded through it like a blade. He turned to Babylon: "Do not expect to always prosper. The noonday does not always burn. The rays of the sun do not constantly give light. For assuredly, in its own season, divine wrath shall awaken against you — wrath that is now restrained by long-suffering, as if held back by reins."

The reins would not hold forever.