Lo, my breast is as wine not opened, Like new bottles it is broken up.

And withheld from the wicked is their light, And the arm lifted up is broken.

A stream hath broken out from a sojourner, Those forgotten of the foot, They were low, from man they wandered.

They have broken down my path, By my calamity they profit, 'He hath no helper.'

My shoulder from its blade let fall, And mine arm from the bone be broken.

(They have broken down, They have not answered again, They removed from themselves words.