“That is why my heart is moaning like funeral flutes for Moab, and my heart moans like flutes for the people of Kir-heres. Thus the wealth he made is lost.
They destroyed the cities. Also each man threw his stone onto every good field and covered it. They stopped up all the springs of water and cut down all the good trees—until nothing was left except Kir-hareseth with the stones of its wall. However, the slingers encircled it and struck it down.
My heart cries out for Moab. Her fugitives are as far as Zoar as a three year old heifer, for by the ascent of Luhith they go up with weeping, for on the way of Horonaim they raise a cry of distress.
Look down from heaven and see from Your holy, glorious, lofty abode. Where are Your zeal and mighty deeds? Are the yearnings of Your heart, Your compassions, withheld from me?
As a partridge that broods over young that she did not lay, so is one who gets wealth, unjustly. In the middle of his days it will abandon him, so at his end he will be a fool.
My stomach, my stomach! I writhe in anguish! The pain of my heart! My heart is pounding within me! I cannot keep silent because I have heard, O my soul, the sound of the shofar, the battle-cry of war.