He grew up before him like a tender shoot,(A)
    and like a root(B) out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
    nothing in his appearance(C) that we should desire him.

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“I have trodden the winepress(A) alone;
    from the nations no one was with me.
I trampled(B) them in my anger
    and trod them down in my wrath;(C)
their blood spattered my garments,(D)
    and I stained all my clothing.

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I am a foreigner to my own family,
    a stranger to my own mother’s children;(A)
for zeal for your house consumes me,(B)
    and the insults of those who insult you fall on me.(C)

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