Brayeth a wild ass over tender grass? Loweth an ox over his provender?

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 turneth not aside from darkness, His tender branch doth a flame dry up, And he turneth aside at the breath of His mouth!

To satisfy a desolate and waste place, And to cause to shoot up The produce of the tender grass?

Doth he multiply unto thee supplications? Doth he speak unto thee tender things?