^14-16 “‘The trumpet signals the call to battle:
    “Present arms!”
But no one marches into battle.
    My wrath has them paralyzed!
On the open roads you’re killed,
    or else you go home and die of hunger and disease.
Either get murdered out in the country
    or die of sickness or hunger in town.
Survivors run for the hills.
    They moan like doves in the valleys,
Each one moaning
    for his own sins.

^17-18 “‘Every hand hangs limp,
    every knee turns to rubber.
They dress in rough burlap—
    sorry scarecrows,
Shifty and shamefaced,
    with their heads shaved bald.