²¹ For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt: I mourn; dismay has taken hold on me.

¹⁷ You shall say this word to them, Let my eyes run down with tears night and day, and let them not cease; for the virgin daughter of my people is broken with a great breach, with a very grievous wound.

¹⁰ She is empty, void, and waste. The heart melts, the knees knock together, their bodies and faces have grown pale.

⁶ At their presence the peoples are in anguish. All faces have grown pale.

¹ I tell the truth in Christ. I am not lying, my conscience testifying with me in the Holy Spirit,

² that I have great sorrow and unceasing pain in my heart.

³ For I could wish that I myself were accursed from Christ for my brothers' sake, my relatives according to the flesh,

¹ Oh that my head were waters, and my eyes a spring of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!

¹⁹ My anguish, my anguish! I am pained at my very heart; my heart is disquieted in me; I can't hold my peace; because you have heard, O my soul, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war.

⁴¹ When he drew near, he saw the city and wept over it,

¹⁶ As for me, I have not hurried from being a shepherd after you; neither have I desired the woeful day; you know: that which came out of my lips was before your face.

⁵ I am dark, but lovely, You daughters of Jerusalem, Like Kedar's tents, Like Solomon's curtains.

⁶ Don't stare at me because I am dark, Because the sun has scorched me. My mother's sons were angry with me. They made me keeper of the vineyards. I haven't kept my own vineyard.

³ For there, those who led us captive asked us for songs. Those who tormented us demanded songs of joy: "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!"

⁴ How can we sing Yahweh's song in a foreign land?

⁵ If I forget you, Jerusalem, Let my right hand forget its skill.

⁶ Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth if I don't remember you; If I don't prefer Jerusalem above my chief joy.

³ I said to the king, Let the king live forever: why should not my face be sad, when the city, the place of my fathers' tombs, lies waste, and the gates of it are consumed with fire?