For, the waters of Nimrim are desolations, For, withered hath been the hay, Finished hath been the tender grass, A green thing there hath not been.

And their inhabitants are feeble-handed, They were broken down, and are dried up. They have been the herb of the field, And the greenness of the tender grass, Grass of the roofs, And blasted corn, before it hath risen up.

Come down, and sit on the dust, O virgin daughter of Babylon, Sit on the earth, there is no throne, O daughter of the Chaldeans, For no more do they cry to thee, 'O tender and delicate one.'

Yea, he cometh up as a tender plant before Him, And as a root out of a dry land, He hath no form, nor honour, when we observe him, Nor appearance, when we desire him.

And ye have seen, and rejoiced hath your heart, And your bones as tender grass do flourish, And the hand of Jehovah hath been known unto His servants, And He hath been indignant with His enemies.