The roads that lead to Zion are in mourning, because no one travels to the festivals. All her gates are desolate; her priests are moaning. Her young women are grieving, and she is bitter.

Though the precious people of Zion were like fine gold, how they are valued like clay vessels, the handiwork of a potter!

Those who die by the sword are better off than those who die from starvation, who slowly waste away like those pierced through for lack of food from the fields.