And thou, O spoiled one, what dost thou? For thou puttest on scarlet, For thou adornest thyself with ornaments of gold. For thou rendest with pain thine eyes, In vain thou dost make thyself fair, Kicked against thee have doting ones, Thy life they do seek.

'We have heard its sound, feeble have been our hands, Distress hath seized us, pain as of a travailing woman.

Why hath my pain been perpetual? And my wound incurable? It hath refused to be healed, Thou art surely to me as a failing stream, Waters not stedfast.

O dweller in Lebanon, making a nest among cedars, How gracious hast thou been when pangs come to thee, Pain -- as of a travailing woman.

What! -- thou criest concerning thy breach! Incurable is thy pain, Because of the abundance of thy iniquity, Mighty have been thy sins! I have done these to thee.

'Thou hast said, Woe to me, now, for Jehovah hath added sorrow to my pain, I have been wearied with my sighing, and rest I have not found.

Heard hath the king of Babylon their report, And feeble have been his hands, Distress hath seized him; pain as a travailing woman.

Suddenly hath Babylon fallen, Yea, it is broken, howl ye for it, Take balm for her pain, if so be it may be healed.