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The roads to Zion mourn, for no one comes to her appointed festivals. All her gateways are desolate, her priests groan, her young women grieve, and she is in bitter anguish.
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“From on high he sent fire, sent it down into my bones. He spread a net for my feet and turned me back. He made me desolate, faint all the day long.
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“I called to my allies but they betrayed me. My priests and my elders perished in the city while they searched for food to keep themselves alive.
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He has laid waste his dwelling like a garden; he has destroyed his place of meeting. The Lord has made Zion forget her appointed festivals and her Sabbaths; in his fierce anger he has spurned both king and priest.
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“Look, Lord, and consider: Whom have you ever treated like this? Should women eat their offspring, the children they have cared for? Should priest and prophet be killed in the sanctuary of the Lord?
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to deny people their rights before the Most High,
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Is it not from the mouth of the Most High that both calamities and good things come?
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Let us examine our ways and test them, and let us return to the Lord.
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Let us lift up our hearts and our hands to God in heaven, and say:
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“All our enemies have opened their mouths wide against us.
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But it happened because of the sins of her prophets and the iniquities of her priests, who shed within her the blood of the righteous.
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The Lord himself has scattered them; he no longer watches over them. The priests are shown no honor, the elders no favor.
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Moreover, our eyes failed, looking in vain for help; from our towers we watched for a nation that could not save us.
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People stalked us at every step, so we could not walk in our streets. Our end was near, our days were numbered, for our end had come.
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Our pursuers were swifter than eagles in the sky; they chased us over the mountains and lay in wait for us in the desert.
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The Lord’s anointed, our very life breath, was caught in their traps. We thought that under his shadow we would live among the nations.
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Remember, Lord, what has happened to us; look, and see our disgrace.
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Our inheritance has been turned over to strangers, our homes to foreigners.
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We have become fatherless, our mothers are widows.
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We must buy the water we drink; our wood can be had only at a price.
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Those who pursue us are at our heels; we are weary and find no rest.
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Our ancestors sinned and are no more, and we bear their punishment.
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We get our bread at the risk of our lives because of the sword in the desert.
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Our skin is hot as an oven, feverish from hunger.
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Joy is gone from our hearts; our dancing has turned to mourning.
