And he fenceth it, and casteth out its stones, And planteth it with a choice vine, And buildeth a tower in its midst, And also a wine press hath hewn out in it, And he waiteth for the yielding of grapes, And it yieldeth bad ones!

Why is Your apparel red,
And Your garments like the one who treads in the wine press?

-- 'A wine-press I have trodden by myself, And of the peoples there is no one with me, And I tread them in mine anger, And I trample them in my fury, Sprinkled is their strength on my garments, And all my clothing I have polluted.