1 Woe to me, for I have become just like one who gleans the clusters of the vintage in autumn. There is no cluster of grapes to consume; my soul desired figs out of season.
2 The holy ones pass away from the land, and there is no one righteous among men. All wait in ambush for blood; a man hunts his brother to death.
3 The evil of their hands, they call good. The leader is demanding, and the judge is yielding, and the great is speaking the desire of his soul, and they have confused it.
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