The precious sons of Zion,
Weighed against fine gold,
How they are regarded as (A)earthen jars,
The work of a potter’s hands!
Even (B)jackals offer the breast,
They nurse their young;
But the daughter of my people has become (C)cruel
Like (D)ostriches in the wilderness.
The (E)tongue of the infant cleaves
To the roof of its mouth because of (F)thirst;
The little ones (G)ask for bread,
But no one breaks it for them.

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