In their streets they gird themselves with sackcloth; on their housetops, and in their broad places, every one waileth, weeping abundantly.
My anguish, my anguish! I am pained at my very heart; my heart is disquieted in me; I cannot hold my peace; because thou hast heard, O my soul, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war.
Destruction upon destruction is cried; for the whole land is laid waste: suddenly are my tents destroyed, (and) my curtains in a moment.
Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!