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For, the waters of Nimrim are desolations, For, withered hath been the hay, Finished hath been the tender grass, A green thing there hath not been.

Therefore the abundance he made, and their store, Unto the brook of the willows they carry.

For gone round hath the cry the border of Moab, Unto Eglaim [is] its howling, And to Beer-Elim [is] its howling.

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