The realm of the dead below is all astir to meet you at your coming; it rouses the spirits of the departed to greet you— all those who were leaders in the world; it makes them rise from their thrones— all those who were kings over the nations.
They will all respond, they will say to you, “You also have become weak, as we are; you have become like us.”
All your pomp has been brought down to the grave, along with the noise of your harps; maggots are spread out beneath you and worms cover you.
How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations!
You said in your heart, “I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon.
I will ascend above the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.”
But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit.
Those who see you stare at you, they ponder your fate: “Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble,
the man who made the world a wilderness, who overthrew its cities and would not let his captives go home?”
All the kings of the nations lie in state, each in his own tomb.
But you are cast out of your tomb like a rejected branch; you are covered with the slain, with those pierced by the sword, those who descend to the stones of the pit. Like a corpse trampled underfoot,