“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.