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It hath made my vine become a desolation, And my fig-tree become a chip, It hath made it thoroughly bare, and hath cast down, Made white have been its branches.

Wail, as a virgin girdeth with sackcloth, For the husband of her youth.

Cut off hath been present and libation from the house of Jehovah, Mourned have the priests, ministrants of Jehovah.

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