Woe to the city of blood, full of lies, full of plunder, never without prey.

The crack of the whip, the rumble of the wheel, galloping horse and bounding chariot!

Charging horseman, flashing sword, shining spear; heaps of slain, mounds of corpses, dead bodies without end—they stumble over their dead—

because of the many harlotries of the harlot, the seductive mistress of sorcery, who betrays nations by her prostitution and clans by her witchcraft.

“Behold, I am against you,” declares the LORD of Hosts. “I will lift your skirts over your face. I will show your nakedness to the nations and your shame to the kingdoms.

I will pelt you with filth and treat you with contempt; I will make a spectacle of you.

Then all who see you will recoil from you and say, ‘Nineveh is devastated; who will grieve for her?’ Where can I find comforters for you?”

Are you better than Thebes, stationed by the Nile with water around her, whose rampart was the sea, whose wall was the water?

Cush and Egypt were her boundless strength; Put and Libya were her allies.

Yet she became an exile; she went into captivity. Her infants were dashed to pieces at the head of every street. They cast lots for her dignitaries, and all her nobles were bound in chains.

You too will become drunk; you will go into hiding and seek refuge from the enemy.

All your fortresses are fig trees with the first ripe figs; when shaken, they fall into the mouth of the eater!

Look at your troops—they are like your women! The gates of your land are wide open to your enemies; fire consumes their bars.

Draw your water for the siege; strengthen your fortresses. Work the clay and tread the mortar; repair the brick kiln!

There the fire will devour you; the sword will cut you down and consume you like a young locust. Make yourself many like the young locust; make yourself many like the swarming locust!

You have multiplied your merchants more than the stars of the sky. The young locust strips the land and flies away.

Your guards are like the swarming locust, and your scribes like clouds of locusts that settle on the walls on a cold day. When the sun rises, they fly away, and no one knows where.

O king of Assyria, your shepherds slumber; your officers sleep. Your people are scattered on the mountains with no one to gather them.

There is no healing for your injury; your wound is severe. All who hear the news of you applaud your downfall, for who has not experienced your constant cruelty?