My bowels, my bowels! I convulse in pain. O walls of my heart! My heart is restless within me; I cannot be silent because you have heard, O my soul, the sound of the ram's horn, the alarm of war.

We have heard the rumor of it; our hands become feeble; anguish has taken hold of us, and pain, like a woman in labor.

Why has my pain been without end, and why is my wound incurable, refusing to be healed? You surely are to me like a deceitful brook, waters that cannot be trusted.

O dweller in Lebanon, nested in the cedars, how you will groan when pangs come to you, the pain as one giving birth?

Why do you cry over your crushing? Your pain is incurable, for the greatness of your iniquity; because your sins are many, I have done these things to you.

Babylon is suddenly fallen and destroyed. Wail for her; take balm for her pain, if perhaps she may be healed.