The plowers plowed upon my back; They made long their furrows.
and I will put it into the hand of them that afflict thee, that have said to thy soul, Bow down, that we may go over; and thou hast laid thy back as the ground, and as the street, to them that go over.
As when one ploweth and cleaveth the earth, Our bones are scattered at the mouth of Sheol.
Canst thou bind the wild-ox with his band in the furrow? Or will he harrow the valleys after thee?
I gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked off the hair; I hid not my face from shame and spitting.