And Jehovah hath delighted to bruise him, He hath made him sick, If his soul doth make an offering for guilt, He seeth seed -- he prolongeth days, And the pleasure of Jehovah in his hand doth prosper.
Sing, O barren, she hath not borne! Break forth with singing, and cry aloud, She hath not brought forth! For more `are' the sons of the desolate, Than the sons of the married one, said Jehovah.
Lift up round about thine eyes and see, All of them have been gathered, they have come to thee, Thy sons from afar do come, And thy daughters on the side are supported.