Bright `art' Thou, honourable above hills of prey.
Their sword doth enter into their own heart, And their bows are shivered.
Gone up hath a lion from his thicket, And a destroyer of nations hath journeyed, He hath come forth from his place To make thy land become a desolation, Thy cities are laid waste, without inhabitant.
And it goeth up and down in the midst of lions, A young lion it hath been, And it learneth to tear prey, man it hath devoured.
And have smitten thy bow out of thy left hand, Yea, thine arrows out of thy right I cause to fall.