The ways to Zion, are mourning, because none come to her appointed feasts, All her gates, are desolate, her priests, are sighing, - her virgins, are grieved, and, she, it is bitter for her.

He hath sated me with bitter things, hath drenched me with wormwood.

The precious sons of Zion, they who were weighed against pure gold, How are they accounted as earthen pitchers, the work of the hands of the potter!

Better are the slain of the sword, than the slain of the famine, - for, these, pine away, stricken through, wanting the produce of the field.