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17 
Your guardsmen are like the swarming locusts.
Your marshals are like the hordes of grasshoppers
Settling in the stone walls on a cold day.
When the sun rises, they fly away,
And no one knows the place where they are.
18 
Your shepherds are asleep, O king of Assyria;
Your nobles are lying down [in death].
Your people are scattered on the mountains
And there is no one to gather them.
19 
There is no relief and healing for your hurt;
Your wound is incurable.
All who hear the news about you
Clap their hands over [what has happened to] you.
For on whom has your [unceasing] evil not come continually?

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