To melt the heart, and to multiply the ruins, By all their gates I have set the point of a sword. Ah, it is made for brightness, Wrapped up for slaughter.

A gathering of silver, and brass, and iron, and lead, and tin, Unto the midst of a furnace -- to blow on it fire, to melt it, So do I gather in Mine anger and in My fury, And I have let rest, and have melted you.