And there hath gone forth a fire out of her staves of rods. Her fruit, hath it devoured, And there is in her no staff of power. As a sceptre to bear rule. A dirge, it is, and hath been made a dirge.

And I will cause you to pass under the rod And will bring you into the bond of the covenant;

To make a slaughter, is it sharpened, That it may flash as lightning, is it furbished. Or shall we flourish the royal rod of my son which despiseth every tree?

For trial hath been made, What then, even though the royal rod despiseth, shall it not be? Demandeth My Lord. Yahweh.