For they have fled from the swords,
From the drawn sword, and from the bent bow
And from the press of battle.

Your men will fall by the sword
And your mighty ones in battle.

For You shall break the yoke of their burden and the staff on their shoulders,
The rod of their oppressor, as at the battle of Midian.

For every boot of the booted warrior in the battle tumult,
And cloak rolled in blood, will be for burning, fuel for the fire.

A sound of tumult on the mountains,
Like that of many people!
A sound of the uproar of kingdoms,
Of nations gathered together!
The Lord of hosts is mustering the army for battle.

You who were full of noise,
You boisterous town, you exultant city;
Your slain were not slain with the sword,
Nor did they die in battle.

“I have no wrath.
Should someone give Me briars and thorns in battle,
Then I would step on them, I would burn them completely.

I will camp against you encircling you,
And I will set siegeworks against you,
And I will raise up battle towers against you.

So He poured out on him the heat of His anger
And the fierceness of battle;
And it set him aflame all around,
Yet he did not recognize it;
And it burned him, but he paid no attention.