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They wander the streets dressed in sackcloth;
    on roofs and public places people wail, collapsing in abundance of tears.
The cries of Heshbon in the north and Elealeh nearby
    reach to Jahaz in the east.
Moab is shaken to the core, wracked with terror, sadness, and grief;
    even its bravest soldiers cry out.
It breaks my heart to hear Moab.
    Refugees make for Zoar at Edom’s border to Eglath-shelishiyah.
They climb, weeping, to the heights of Luhith and along roads to Horonaim.
They go with shattering cries.
    The land itself is destroyed, dead.

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