Come down, and sit on the dust, O virgin daughter of Babylon, Sit on the earth, there is no throne, O daughter of the Chaldeans, For no more do they cry to thee, 'O tender and delicate one.'
Take millstones, and grind flour, Remove thy veil, draw up the skirt, Uncover the leg, pass over the floods.
Revealed is thy nakedness, yea, seen is thy reproach, Vengeance I take, and I meet not a man.
Our redeemer [is] Jehovah of Hosts, His name [is] the Holy One of Israel.
Sit silent, and go into darkness, O daughter of the Chaldeans, For no more do they cry to thee, 'Mistress of kingdoms.'
I have been wroth against My people, I have polluted Mine inheritance And I give them into thy hand, Thou hast not appointed for them mercies, On the aged thou hast made thy yoke very heavy,
And thou sayest, 'To the age I am mistress,' While thou hast not laid these things to thy heart, Thou hast not remembered the latter end of it.
And now, hear this, O luxurious one, Who is sitting confidently -- Who is saying in her heart, 'I [am], and none else, I sit not a widow, nor know bereavement.'
And come in to thee do these two things, In a moment, in one day, childlessness and widowhood, According to their perfection they have come upon thee, In the multitude of thy sorceries, In the exceeding might of thy charms.
And thou art confident in thy wickedness, Thou hast said, 'There is none seeing me,' Thy wisdom and thy knowledge, It is turning thee back, And thou sayest in thy heart, 'I [am], and none else.'
And come in on thee hath evil, Thou knowest not its rising, And fall on thee doth mischief, Thou art not able to pacify it, And come on thee suddenly doth desolation, Thou knowest not.
Stand, I pray thee, in thy charms, And in the multitude of thy sorceries, In which thou hast laboured from thy youth, It may be thou art able to profit, It may be thou dost terrify!
Thou hast been wearied in the multitude of thy counsels, Stand up, I pray thee, and save thee, Let the charmers of the heavens, Those looking on the stars, Those teaching concerning the months, From those things that come on thee!
Lo, they have been as stubble! Fire hath burned them, They deliver not themselves from the power of the flame, There is not a coal to warm them, a light to sit before it.
So have they been to thee with whom thou hast laboured, Thy merchants from thy youth, Each to his passage they have wandered, Thy saviour is not!