Nahum 3

Ah, city of crime, Utterly treacherous, Full of violence, Where killing never stops!

Crack of whip And rattle of wheel, Galloping steed And bounding chariot!

Charging cavalry, Flashing swords, And glittering spears! Hosts of slain And heaps of corpses, Dead bodies without number— They stumble over bodies.

Because of the countless whoredoms of the whore, The winsome mistress of sorcery, Who ensnared nations with her whoredoms And peoples with her sorcery,

I am going to deal with you —declares GOD of Hosts. I will lift up your skirts over your face And display your nakedness to the nations And your shame to kingdoms.

I will throw loathsome things over you And disfigure you And make a spectacle of you.

All who see you will recoil from you And will say, “Nineveh has been ravaged!” Who will console her? Where shall I look for Anyone to comfort you?

Were you any better than No-amon, Which sat by the Nile, Surrounded by water— Its rampart a river, Its wall consisting of sea?

Populous Cush And teeming Egypt, Put and the Libyans— They were her helpers.

Yet even she was exiled, She went into captivity. Her babes, too, were dashed in pieces At every street corner. Lots were cast for her nobles, And all her dignitaries were bound in chains.

You too shall be drunk And utterly overcome; You too shall seek A refuge from the enemy.

All your forts are fig trees With ripe fruit; If shaken they will fall Into the mouths of devourers.

Truly, the troops within you are women; The gates of your land have opened themselves To your enemies; Fire has consumed your gate bars.

Draw water for the siege, Strengthen your forts; Tread the clay, Trample the mud, Grasp the brick mold!

There fire will devour you, The sword will put an end to you; It will devour you like the grub. Multiply like grubs, Multiply like locusts!

You had more traders Than the sky has stars— The grubs cast their skins and fly away.

Your guards were like locusts, Your marshals like piles of hoppers That settle on the stone fences On a chilly day; When the sun comes out, they fly away, And where they are nobody knows.

Your shepherds are slumbering, O king of Assyria; Your sheepmasters are lying inert; Your people are scattered over the hills, And there is none to gather them.

There is no healing for your injury; Your wound is grievous. All who hear the news about you Clap their hands over you. For who has not suffered From your constant malice?