|
1 My woe is to me, for I have been As gatherings of summer-fruit, As gleanings of harvest, There is no cluster to eat, The first-ripe fruit desired hath my soul. 2 Perished hath the kind out of the land, And upright among men -- there are none, All of them for blood lie in wait, Each his brother they hunt with a net. 3 On the evil are both hands to do it well, The prince is asking -- also the judge -- for recompence, And the great -- he is speaking the mischief of his soul, And they wrap it up. 4 Their best one is as a brier, The upright one -- than a thorn-hedge, The day of thy watchmen -- Thy visitation -- hath come. Now is their perplexity. Micah 7:1-4, Young's Literal Translation. Public domain.
|
