לְמַ֨עַן טְבֹ֤חַ טֶ֙בַח֙ הוּחַ֔דָּה לְמַעַן־הֱיֵה־לָ֥הּ בָּ֖רָק מֹרָ֑טָּה א֣וֹ נָשִׂ֔ישׂ שֵׁ֥בֶט בְּנִ֖י מֹאֶ֥סֶת כָּל־עֵֽץ׃
It is sharpened that it may make a sore slaughter, It is furbished that it may glitter— Or shall we make mirth?— Against the rod of My son, contemning every tree.
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