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From the sole of the foot -- unto the head, There is no soundness in it, Wound, and bruise, and fresh smiting! They have not been closed nor bound, Nor have they softened with ointment.

Your land [is] a desolation, your cities burnt with fire, Your ground, before you strangers are consuming it, And a desolation as overthrown by strangers!

And left hath been the daughter of Zion, As a booth in a vineyard, As a lodge in a place of cucumbers -- as a city besieged.

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