The plowers plowed upon my back: they made long their furrows.
Can you bind the wild ox with ropes in the furrow? or will he plow the valleys behind you?
Our bones are scattered at the grave's mouth, as when one cuts and splits wood upon the earth.
I gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked out the beard: I hid not my face from shame and spitting.
But I will put it into the hand of them that afflict you; who have said to your soul, Bow down, that we may go over: and you have laid your body like the ground, and as the street, for them that pass over.
