As stubble have darts been reckoned, And he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin.
And Uzziah prepareth for them, for all the host, shields, and spears, and helmets, and coats of mail, and bows, even to stones of the slings.
The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling.
Under him `are' sharp points of clay, He spreadeth gold on the mire.