See, I am letting snakes loose among you, adders that cannot be charmed, and they shall bite you, says the Lord.
My joy is gone, grief is upon me, my heart is sick.
Hark, the cry of my poor people from far and wide in the land: "Is the Lord not in Zion? Is her King not in her?" ("Why have they provoked me to anger with their images, with their foreign idols?")
"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
For the hurt of my poor people I am hurt, I mourn, and dismay has taken hold of me.
Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has the health of my poor people not been restored?