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