O daughter of my people Gird thee with sackcloth and roll thyself in ashes, - The mourning for an only son, make thou for thyself, Most bitter lamentation! For suddenly, shall the destroyer come upon us.

Upon all the housetops of Moab And in her broadways, it is all lamentation, - For I have broken Moab - Like a vessel wherein is no pleasure Declareth Yahweh.