For, thus, saith Yahweh of hosts, God of Israel, The daughter of Babylon, is like a threshing, floor at the time of treading her: Yet a little, and the time of harvest shall overtake her.

Cut ye off the sower from Babylon, And him that graspeth the sickle in the time of harvest, From the face of the sword of the oppressor, Each, to his own people will they turn, and Each, to his own land will they flee.