Jeremiah 19

You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.

Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.

The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.

Others will hiss at your desperation.

You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.

I will cry.

The clay feels sharp in between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.

Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars. But what will I say?

You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.

Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered. 

I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?