He hath caused to enter into my reins The sons of His quiver.
The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling.
For arrows of the Mighty `are' with me, Whose poison is drinking up my spirit. Terrors of God array themselves `for' me!
Its quiver `is' as an open sepulchre, All of them -- mighty ones.
He hath trodden His bow as an enemy, Stood hath His right hand as an adversary, And He slayeth all the desirable ones of the eye, In the tent of the daughter of Zion, He hath poured out as fire His fury.
I gather upon them evils, Mine arrows I consume upon them.