“But now those younger than I alaugh at me,
Whose fathers I rejected even to put with the dogs of my flock.
2 Indeed, what good was the strength of their hands to me?
Vigor had perished from them.
3 From want and famine they are gaunt,
Who gnaw the dry ground by night in destruction and desolation,
4 Who pluck mallow by the bushes,
And whose food is the root of the broom tree.
5 They are driven from the community;
They shout against them as against a thief,
6 So that they dwell in the slopes of the valleys,
In holes of the dust and of the rocks.
7 Among the bushes they cry out;
Under the nettles they are gathered together.
8 Wicked fools, even those without a name,
They were scourged from the land.
9 “And now I have become their mocking asong;
I have even become a btaunting word to them.
10 They abhor me and keep a distance from me,
And they do not hold back from aspitting at my face.
11 Because He has loosed His bowstring and aafflicted me,
They have thrust aside btheir bridle before me.
12 On the right hand their brood arises;
They athrust aside my feet band build up against me their ways to disaster.
13 They abreak up my path;
They profit from my destruction;
They have no helper.
14 As through a wide breach they come,
Amid the storm they roll on.