This is the joyous city That dwelt without care, That said in her heart: ‘I am, and there is none else beside me’; How is she become a desolation, A place for beasts to lie down in! Every one that passeth by her Shall hiss, and wag his hand.
This is the joyous city That dwelt without care, That said in her heart: ‘I am, and there is none else beside me’; How is she become a desolation, A place for beasts to lie down in! Every one that passeth by her Shall hiss, and wag his hand.