And it is established -- she hath removed, She hath been brought up, And her handmaids are leading as the voice of doves, Tabering on their hearts.

She is empty, yea, emptiness and waste, And the heart hath melted, And the knees have smitten together, And great pain is in all loins, And the faces of all of them have gathered paleness.

Woe to the city of blood, She is all with lies -- burglary -- full, Prey doth not depart.

Art thou better than No-Ammon, That is dwelling among brooks? Waters she hath round about her, Whose bulwark is the sea, waters her wall.

Even she doth become an exile, She hath gone into captivity, Even her sucklings are dashed to pieces At the top of all out-places, And for her honoured ones they cast a lot, And all her great ones have been bound in fetters.