The plowers plowed upon my back: they made long their furrows.
Can you bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow? or will he harrow the valleys after you?
Our bones are scattered at the grave’s mouth, as when one cuts and splits wood on the earth.
I gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to those who plucked off the hair: I did not hide my face from shame and spitting.
But I will put it into the hand of those who afflict you; who have said to your soul, Bow down, that we may go over: and you have laid down your body like the ground, and like the street, to those who went over.