For a voice as of a sick woman I have heard, Distress, as of one bringing forth a first-born, The voice of the daughter of Zion, She bewaileth herself, she spreadeth out her hands, `Wo to me now, for weary is my soul of slayers!'
How doth the Lord cloud in His anger the daughter of Zion, He hath cast from heaven `to' earth the beauty of Israel, And hath not remembered His footstool in the day of His anger.
What do I testify `to' thee, what do I liken to thee, O daughter of Jerusalem? What do I equal to thee, and I comfort thee, O virgin daughter of Zion? For great as a sea `is' thy breach, Who doth give healing to thee?
`The tender woman in thee, and the delicate, who hath not tried the sole of her foot to place on the ground because of delicateness and because of tenderness -- her eye is evil against the husband of her bosom, and against her son, and against her daughter,