There is no joy left in our hearts. Our dancing has turned into mourning.
So my lyre is used for mourning and my flute for loud weeping.
You have changed my sobbing into dancing. You have removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy
I will take from them the sounds of joy and happiness, the sounds of brides and grooms, the sound of mills, and the light of lamps.
I will turn your festivals into funerals and all your songs into funeral songs. I will put sackcloth around everyone’s waist and shave everyone’s head. I will make that day seem like a funeral for an only child, and its end will be bitter.