Let them wander as beggars in the street, like homeless vagabonds, evicted from their ruins!
I was once inexperienced, but now I’m old. Not once have I found a lover of God forsaken by him, nor have any of their children gone hungry.
At the banks of the River Arnon, the women of Moab are like newly hatched, fluttering birds.
Drifting, devouring, and coming in for the kill, they refuse to sleep until they’ve eaten their fill.