Upon my back the plowers plowed, as they traced their long furrows.
Will you bind the wild ox with a rope in the furrow, and will he plow the valleys after you?
Like the plowing and breaking up of the earth, our bones are strewn at the mouth of Sheol.
I gave my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who tore out my beard; My face I did not hide from insults and spitting.
I will put it into the hands of your tormentors, those who said to you, “Bow down, that we may walk over you.” So you offered your back like the ground, like the street for them to walk on.