They are wet with the showers of the mountains, And embrace the rock for want of a shelter.
They lie all night naked without clothing, And have no covering in the cold.
There are that pluck the fatherless from the breast, And take a pledge of the poor:
I was asleep, but my heart waked: It is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: For my head is filled with dew, My locks with the drops of the night.
They that did feed delicately are desolate in the streets: they that were brought up in scarlet embrace dung-hills.
(of whom the world was not worthy), wandering in deserts and mountains and caves, and the holes of the earth.