11 Tremble ye women, ye easy ones, Be troubled, ye confident ones, Strip and make bare, with a girdle on the loins,
12 For breasts they are lamenting, For fields of desire, for the fruitful vine.
13 Over the ground of my people thorn -- brier goeth up, Surely over all houses of joy of the exulting city,
14 Surely the palace hath been left, The multitude of the city forsaken, Fort and watch-tower hath been for dens unto the age, A joy of wild asses -- a pasture of herds;
15 Till emptied out on us is the Spirit from on high, And a wilderness hath become a fruitful field, And the fruitful field for a forest is reckoned.
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