And all her graven images are beaten down, And all her gifts are burnt with fire, And all her idols I make a desolation, For, from the hire of a harlot she gathered, and unto the hire of a harlot they return.

And He hath judged between many peoples, And given a decision to mighty nations afar off, They have beaten their swords to ploughshares, And their spears to pruning-hooks, Nation lifteth not up sword unto nation, Nor do they learn war any more.

Arise, and thresh, O daughter of Zion, For thy horn I make iron, And thy hoofs I make brass, And thou hast beaten small many peoples, And I have devoted to Jehovah their gain, And their wealth to the Lord of the whole earth!