NahumKapitel 3

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Woe to the city of blood, full of lies, stuffed with plunder—the prey never ends!
The crack of the whip, the rumble of wheels, galloping horses and jolting chariots!
Charging horsemen, flashing swords, glittering spears—hosts of slain, heaps of corpses, bodies without end; they stumble over the dead.
All because of the endless harlotries of the harlot, so graceful and charming, that mistress of sorcery, who sold nations with her harlotries and peoples with her spells.
I am against you, declares the LORD of hosts. I will lift your skirts over your face; I will show the nations your nakedness and the kingdoms your shame.
I will pelt you with filth, treat you with contempt, and make you a spectacle.
All who see you will recoil from you and say, "Nineveh is ruined! Who will mourn for her?" Where shall I find anyone to comfort you?
Are you better than Thebes, seated by the Nile with waters all around her, whose rampart was the sea, whose wall was the water?
Cush was her strength, and Egypt beyond measure; Put and the Libyans were your helpers.
Yet she too went into exile, into captivity. Her infants were dashed to pieces at the head of every street; lots were cast for her nobles, and all her great men were bound in chains.
You too will drink deep and stagger; you too will go into hiding, searching for refuge from the enemy.
All your fortresses are fig trees heavy with first-ripe fruit: when they are shaken, the fruit falls into the mouth of the eater.
Look at your troops—they are women in your midst! The gates of your land stand wide open to your enemies; fire has devoured your bars.
Draw water for the siege, strengthen your fortresses! Go down into the clay, tread the mortar, take hold of the brick mold!
There the fire will devour you, the sword will cut you down; it will consume you like the young locust. Multiply like the young locust, multiply like the swarming locust!
You made your merchants more numerous than the stars of heaven—but the locust strips the land and flies away.
Your guards are like locusts, your officers like swarms of grasshoppers settling on the walls on a cold day; when the sun rises they take flight, and no one knows where they have gone.
Your shepherds slumber, O king of Assyria; your nobles lie down to sleep. Your people are scattered on the mountains, and no one gathers them.
There is no relief for your injury; your wound is mortal. All who hear the news of you clap their hands over your fall—for who has not felt your endless cruelty?