She weeps bitterly in the night,
with tears on her cheeks;
among all her lovers
she has none to comfort her;
all her friends have dealt treacherously with her;
they have become her enemies.
And now the nation faces its darkest hour: the result of their own self-destruction.
Men were forced to become slaves, for there was nothing to eat. Women were forced to eat their dead children and sell their precious bodies to sustain their own family. The merchants, even those who racketeered for profits in the past, would learn that their gold —if any— was worthless in such dire times. The prophets felt the sting of their ignorance. The musicians had no reason to laugh or sing or shout or praise; if they had any song in their mouths, then it was wasted on a muddy puddle with their tears. The sanctuary, once the most holiest Place in the world, had its holiness sacked and raped. No one except their conquerors would receive them as refugees of their own torment. Yet they, this nation, had to face a fate worse than death —alone.
Not even Egypt, or Syria, or Greece, or Moab would help her. They merely laughed at their misery rather than lend her a hand. Persia, on the other hand, had a new crop of free slaves that would serve its mighty empire. But the nation, on the other hand, who do they had to turn to? Abraham has long been dead. Joseph's bones are in their rightful tomb. Moses' grave is nowhere to be found. David's heritage is nowhere to be found.
Who would comfort her? Who would hug her? Who would tell her that her pain would end soon?