You hungered for the fleshpots, knowing
well what flesh-pots entail: the cleaning of the flesh-pots, the
forging of the flesh-pots, the hewing of wood to make the fires for
the boiling of the flesh-pots, the breeding of beasts to fill the
pots, the growing of fodder to feed the beasts to fill the pots.
All the labour of our life is centred round our flesh-pots. On the
altar of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our leisure, our peace of mind.
For a mess of pottage we sell our birthright.
Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you were
preparing for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up the
image of the Calf, and fell before it, crying--"This shall be our
God."
You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man pays for
Veal? The servants of the Golden Calf! I see them, stretched
before my eyes, a weary, endless throng. I see them toiling in the
mines, the black sweat on their faces. I see them in sunless
cities, silent, and grimy, and bent. I see them, ague-twisted, in
the rain-soaked fields. I see them, panting by the furnace doors.
I see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, the load upon their head. I
see them in blue coats and red coats, marching to pour their blood
as an offering on the altar of the Calf.
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