and the cities they break down, and `on' every good portion they cast each his stone, and have filled it, and every fountain of water they stop, and every good tree they cause to fall -- till one had left its stones in Kir-Haraseth, and the slingers go round and smite it.
My heart `is' toward Moab, Cry do her fugitives unto Zoar, a heifer of the third `year', For -- the ascent of Luhith -- With weeping he goeth up in it, For, in the way of Horonaim, A cry of destruction they wake up.
Look attentively from the heavens, And see from Thy holy and beauteous habitation, Where `is' Thy zeal and Thy might? The multitude of Thy bowels and Thy mercies Towards me have refrained themselves.
A partridge hatching, and not bringing forth, `Is' one making wealth, and not by right, In the midst of his days he doth forsake it, And in his latter end -- he is a fool.
My bowels, my bowels! I am pained `at' the walls of my heart, Make a noise for me doth My heart, I am not silent, For the voice of a trumpet I have heard, O my soul -- a shout of battle!