The ways of Zion are mourning, Without any coming at the appointed time, All her gates are desolate, her priests sigh, Her virgins are afflicted -- and she hath bitterness.

All her people are sighing -- seeking bread, They have given their desirable things For food to refresh the body; See, O Jehovah, and behold attentively, For I have been lightly esteemed.

Bound hath been the yoke of my transgressions by His hand, They are wrapped together, They have gone up on my neck, He hath caused my power to stumble, The Lord hath given me into hands, I am not able to rise.

Spread forth hath Zion her hands, There is no comforter for her, Jehovah hath charged concerning Jacob, His neighbours are his adversaries, Jerusalem hath become impure among them.

They have heard that I have sighed, There is no comforter for me, All my enemies have heard of my calamity, They have rejoiced that Thou hast done it, Thou hast brought in the day Thou hast called, And they are like to me.

Come in doth all their evil before Thee, And one is doing to them as Thou hast done to me, For all my transgressions, For many are my sighs, and my heart is sick!

Sunk into the earth have her gates, He hath destroyed and broken her bars, Her king and her princes are among the nations, There is no law, also her prophets Have not found vision from Jehovah.

To their mothers they say, 'Where are corn and wine?' In their becoming feeble as a pierced one In the broad places of the city, In their soul pouring itself out into the bosom of their mothers.

Arise, cry aloud in the night, At the beginning of the watches. Pour out as water thy heart, Over against the face of the Lord, Lift up unto Him thy hands, for the soul of thine infants, Who are feeble with hunger at the head of all out-places.

See, O Jehovah, and look attentively, To whom Thou hast acted thus, Do women eat their fruit, infants of a handbreadth? Slain in the sanctuary of the Lord are priest and prophet?

How is the gold become dim, Changed the best -- the pure gold? Poured out are stones of the sanctuary At the head of all out-places.

The precious sons of Zion, Who are comparable with fine gold, How have they been reckoned earthen bottles, Work of the hands of a potter.

Because of the sins of her prophets, The iniquities of her priests, Who are shedding in her midst the blood of the righteous,

While we exist -- consumed are our eyes for our vain help, In our watch-tower we have watched for a nation that saveth not.

Orphans we have been -- without a father, our mothers are as widows.

Our fathers have sinned -- they are not, We their iniquities have borne.