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 drive him to his feet.
Behold, he travaileth with iniquity, and hath conceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood.
It is sharpened to make a sore slaughter; it is furbished that it may glitter: should we then make mirth? it contemneth the rod of my son, as every tree.