His archers compass me round about; He cleaveth my reins asunder, and doth not spare; He poureth out my gall upon the ground.
Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, And shall chase him at his heels.
Behold, he travaileth with iniquity; Yea, he hath conceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood.
it is sharpened that it may make a slaughter; it is furbished that it may be as lightning: shall we then make mirth? the rod of my son, it contemneth every tree.