My skin has turned dark on me; my body is hot with fever.

I am exhausted from shouting for help; my throat is sore; my eyes grow tired of looking for my God.

For my days go up in smoke, and my bones are charred like a fireplace.

Like charcoal is to burning coals, and wood to fire, so is a contentious person to kindle strife.

The fiery bellows of judgment burn fiercely. But there is too much dross to be removed. The process of refining them has proved useless. The wicked have not been purged.

Pile up the bones, kindle the fire; cook the meat well, mix in the spices, let the bones be charred.

Do not stare at me because I am dark, for the sun has burned my skin. My brothers were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards. Alas, my own vineyard I could not keep!

So a treaty curse devours the earth; its inhabitants pay for their guilt. This is why the inhabitants of the earth disappear, and are reduced to just a handful of people.

No! It is thrown in the fire for fuel; when the fire has burned up both ends of it and it is charred in the middle, will it be useful for anything?

Indeed! If it was not made into anything useful when it was whole, how much less can it be made into anything when the fire has burned it up and it is charred?

Set the empty pot on the coals, until it becomes hot and its copper glows, until its uncleanness melts within it and its rot is consumed.