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?

My woe is to me, for I have been As gatherings of summer-fruit, As gleanings of harvest, There is no cluster to eat, The first-ripe fruit desired hath my soul.

On the evil are both hands to do it well, The prince is asking -- also the judge -- for recompence, And the great -- he is speaking the mischief of his soul, And they wrap it up.