To the dirges of Jermiah's hope that melancholy burden bore, lamenting, longing for surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost City, the rare and radient City of God, The rebellious Jerusalem.
Respite! Respite and nepenthe! pleads the prophet, "Why is there no healing for the wound of my people?"
20 “The harvest is past,
the summer has ended,
and we are not saved.”
21 Since my people are crushed, I am crushed;
I mourn, and horror grips me.
22 Is there no balm in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?
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