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One who fashions idols sees no profit:
Poor, deaf and dumb, in blindness brought to shame.
Let them assemble; now the pieces fit?
When fools convene, the outcome is the same.

The craftsman forges iron with tools and strength;
Soon tired, parched and hungry, he falls faint. 
The wood, he shapes with planes and cuts to length.
Gods these? The conjured images are quaint!

A fallen log, a wooden irony:
With half, he cooks, with half he warms his bod,
The rest he worships! "Nothing, lord but thee!"
He prays, cries out, "Deliver me, my god!"

Where is the wisdom? Can you not discern?
Deluded hearts that pray to gods they burn!

(from Isaiah 44)

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