Between their walls they make oil, Wine-presses they have trodden, and thirst.

And removed hath been joy and gladness From the fruitful field, Even from the land of Moab, And wine from wine-presses I have caused to cease, Shouting doth not proceed, The shouting is no shouting!

Send ye forth a sickle, For ripened hath harvest, Come in, come down, for filled hath been the press, Overflowed hath wine-presses, For great is their wickedness.

And filled are thy barns with plenty, And with new wine thy presses break forth.

And removed have been gladness and joy from the fruitful field, And in vineyards they sing not, nor shout, Wine in the presses treadeth not the treader, Shouting I have caused to cease.

And full have been the floors with pure corn, And overflown have the presses with new wine and oil.