Wherefore hath my pain become perpetual? And my wound, incurable? Refuseth to be healed? Wilt thou, indeed be, to me As a brook that disappointeth, Waters that cannot be trusted?
Her adversaries have become chief, her foes, are at ease, for, Yahweh, hath grieved her, because of the multitude of her transgressions,—Her children, have gone into captivity, before the adversary.
And, in fact, he was sick, nigh unto death; but, God, had mercy on him,—and, not on him only, but, on me also, lest, sorrow upon sorrow, I should have.
Her impurity, is in her skirts, She hath not remembered her hereafter, Therefore hath she come down wonderfully, none to comfort her,—Behold, O Yahweh, my humiliation, that the foe, hath made himself great.
These things, I keep calling to mind, and pouring out, over me, my own soul, For I used to cross over with a crowd, Lead them in procession up to the house of God, With the voice of shouting and praise.—a throng keeping festival.
Then said the king unto me, Wherefore is thy countenance sad, seeing that, thou, art not sick? this is nothing else, but sadness of heart. Then feared I exceedingly,