O daughter of My people, Gird on sackcloth, and roll thyself in ashes, The mourning of an only one make for thee, A lamentation most bitter, For suddenly come doth the spoiler against us.
Daughter of my people, gird thee with sackcloth, and roll thyself in ashes: make mourning, for an only son—bitter lamentation; for the spoiler cometh suddenly upon us.
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