With a yoke on our necks we are hard driven; we are weary, we are given no rest.
We have made a pact with Egypt and Assyria, to get enough bread.
Our ancestors sinned; they are no more, and we bear their iniquities.
Slaves rule over us; there is no one to deliver us from their hand.
We get our bread at the peril of our lives, because of the sword in the wilderness.
Our skin is black as an oven from the scorching heat of famine.
Women are raped in Zion, virgins in the towns of Judah.
Princes are hung up by their hands; no respect is shown to the elders.
Young men are compelled to grind, and boys stagger under loads of wood.
The old men have left the city gate, the young men their music.
The joy of our hearts has ceased; our dancing has been turned to mourning.