Alas for me! for I am become as gatherings of summer fruit, as gleaning-grapes in harvest, there is no cluster to eat, the first ripe fruit, my soul, craved.

And thou, O tower of the flock, hill of the daughter of Zion, unto thee shall it come, yea, the first dominion shall come, the kingdom to the daughter of Jerusalem.

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?