Woe is me! for I am as when they have gathered the summer fruits, as the grape gleanings of the vintage: there is no cluster to eat: my soul desired the first ripe fruit.

Notwithstanding, the land must be wasted, because of them that dwell therein, and for the fruits of their own Imaginations.

Is Jehovah pleased with thousands of rams? With myriads of streams of oil? Do I give my first-born for my transgression? The fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?