YLT(i)
29 Rejoice not thou, Philistia, all of thee, That broken hath been the rod of thy smiter, For from the root of a serpent cometh out a viper, And its fruit is a flying saraph.
30 And delighted have the first-born of the poor, And the needy in confidence lie down, And I have put to death with famine thy root, And thy remnant it slayeth.
31 Howl, O gate; cry, O city, Melted art thou, Philistia, all of thee, For from the north smoke hath come, And there is none alone in his set places.