My people at its staff asketh and its rod declareth to it, For a spirit of whoredoms hath caused to err, And they go a-whoring from under their God.

On tops of the mountains they do sacrifice, And on the hills they make perfume, Under oak, and poplar, and terebinth, For good is its shade.

I do not the fierceness of My anger, I turn not back to destroy Ephraim, For God I am, and not a man. In thy midst the Holy One, and I enter not in enmity,

Return do the dwellers under his shadow, They revive as corn, and flourish as a vine, His memorial is as wine of Lebanon.