The arrow cannot make it flee; slingstones, for it, are turned to chaff.
It scorns the tumult of the city; it does not hear the shouts of the driver.
It counts iron as straw and bronze as rotten wood.
Clubs are counted as chaff; it laughs at the rattle of javelins.
At kings they scoff, and of rulers they make sport. They laugh at every fortress and heap up earth to take it.
The Lord of hosts will protect them, and they shall consume and conquer the slingers; they shall drink their blood like wine and be full like a bowl, drenched like the corners of the altar.