ד DaletThe roads to Zion mourn,
for no one comes to the appointed festivals.
All her gates are deserted;
her priests groan,
her young women grieve,
and she herself is bitter.

He has put up a wall against me, shutting me in with bitter sorrow.

He hath filled me with bitter things, He hath filled me with wormwood.

Keep in mind my trouble and my wandering, the bitter root and the poison.

Their bitter words have come to your ears, O Lord, and all their designs against me;

The precious sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how are they esteemed as earthen pitchers, the work of the hands of the potter!

They that be slain with the sword are better than they that be slain with hunger: for these pine away, stricken through for want of the fruits of the field.