“Poor Jerusalem, storm-tossed, and not comforted,
I will set your stones in black mortar,
and lay your foundations in sapphires.

But the wicked are like the storm-tossed sea,
for it cannot be still,
and its waters churn up mire and muck.

When I lie down I think:
When will I get up?
But the evening drags on endlessly,
and I toss and turn until dawn.