Study Desk

When I would have cheered myself against sorrow, Against me, mine own heart sickened: -

Lo! the voice of the cry for help of the daughter of my people from a land far away, Is, Yahweh, not in Zion? Is, her King, not within her? Why, have they provoked me with their carved images, with their foreign vanities?

The harvest is passed, The fruit-gathering, is ended; And we are not saved!

For the grievous injury of the daughter of my people, I am grievously injured, - I am enshrouded in gloom, Horror, hath seized me: -

Balsam, is there none, in Gilead? Is there no physician, there? Why hath not appeared the healing of the daughter of my people?

Oh that my head were waters, And mine eyes a fountain of tears, - That I might weep day and night, For the slain of the daughter of my people!

Oh that I had in the wilderness, a wayfarers lodge, That I might leave my people, and go from them, - For they all, are Adulterers, An assemblage of traitors;