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.

Trodden down all my mighty ones hath the Lord in my midst, He proclaimed against me an appointed time, To destroy my young men, A wine-press hath the Lord trodden, To the virgin daughter of Judah.

And He shaketh as a garden His tabernacle, He hath destroyed His appointed place, Jehovah hath forgotten in Zion the appointed time and sabbath, And despiseth, in the indignation of His anger, king and priest.

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.

For this hath our heart been sick, For these have our eyes been dim.