He breaketh me down round about, and I go, And removeth like a tree my hope.

Forget him doth the womb, Sweeten on him doth the worm, No more is he remembered, And broken as a tree is wickedness.

For there is of a tree hope, if it be cut down, That again it doth change, That its tender branch doth not cease.

He regards iron like straw, and hardened bronze like a dead tree.