Г олос кличе: Звіщай! Я ж спитав: Про що буду звіщати? Всяке тіло трава, всяка ж слава як цвіт польовий:
The voice of one saying, Cry. And one said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field.
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