Why is my sorrow become perpetual, and my wound desperate so as to refuse to be healed? It is become to me as the falsehood of deceitful waters that cannot be trusted.
Why criest thou for thy affliction? Thy sorrow is incurable: for the multitude of thy iniquity and for thy hardened sins, I have done these things to thee.
Thou hast deceived me, O Lord, and I am deceived: thou hast been stronger than I, and thou hast prevailed. I am become a laughing-stock all the day: all scoff at me.
Hast thou utterly cast away Juda, or hath thy soul abhorred Sion? Why then hast thou struck us, so that there is no healing for us? We have looked for peace, and there is no good: and for the time of healing, and, behold, trouble.
The great ones sent their inferiors to the water: they came to draw, they found no water, they carried back their vessels empty: they were confounded and afflicted, and covered their heads.