Israel, say it: they have come at me since I was young, again and again, and it never let up. They came at me since I was young, and not once did they finish the job. They drove furrows down the length of my back the way a plough opens a field. But the Lord is just, and He cut through the ropes the wicked had pulled tight. Let everyone who hates Zion be turned around, dried out like the grass on a roof: grass no reaper ever fills a hand with, that nobody carries home in his arms. No one passing will call that work blessed; His name will not be laid over their violence.