For these I am weeping, My eye, my eye, is running down with waters, For, far from me hath been a comforter, Refreshing my soul, My sons have been desolate, For mighty hath been an enemy.

Better have been the pierced of a sword Than the pierced of famine, For these flow away, pierced through, Without the increase of the field.

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