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On the day of our king,
princes become sick from wine.
His hand drags scorners along.
For their hearts are like an oven,
as they wait in ambush.
All night their anger smolders.
In the morning it burns like a blazing fire.
All of them are hot like an oven,
and they devour their rulers.
All of their kings have fallen.
None among them calls on Me.

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