Plowmen have plowed my back and made their furrows long.
I will put it into the hands of your tormentors, who said to you, ‘Fall prostrate that we may walk on you.’ And you made your back like the ground, like a street to be walked on.”
They will say, “As one plows and breaks up the earth, so our bones have been scattered at the mouth of the grave.”
Can you hold it to the furrow with a harness? Will it till the valleys behind you?
I offered my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who pulled out my beard; I did not hide my face from mocking and spitting.