Nahum 3 in plain modern English. New Ground English Translation.

Doom to the city of blood, full of lies, stuffed with what she took, never once without something to tear.

The crack of a whip, the rumble of a wheel, a horse at full gallop, a chariot slamming along behind.

A rider driving forward, a sword throwing light, a spear flashing, crowds of the killed, piles of the dead, bodies with no end to them, and the living stumbling over the bodies.

All of it because the prostitute sold herself so many times, good looking, well practised in spells, selling off nations with her body and whole families with her spells.

I am coming for you, says Yahweh who commands armies. I will pull your skirts up over your face. I will let the nations look at you with nothing on and the kingdoms stare at your shame.

I will throw filth on you, handle you like refuse, and stand you up where everyone can look.

Everyone who sees you will back away and say, "Nineveh is finished. Who is going to mourn for her?" Where would I look to find one person to comfort you?

Are you any better than Thebes, sitting on the Nile with water all around her, the river her defence, the water her wall?

Cush was her strength, and Egypt, with no end to it. Put and the Libyans were there to help her.

She went out too, into exile, into the prisoner column. Her babies were smashed on the paving at the head of every street. They threw dice for her important men and chained her great men in pairs.

You will drink until you go down too. You will look for somewhere to hide. You will go begging for shelter from your enemy.

Every fort you have is a fig tree loaded with the first ripe fruit. Shake it, and the figs drop into the mouth of whoever is standing under it.

Look at your troops. Women, standing in the middle of you. The gates of your country are wide open to your enemies. Fire has eaten through the bars.

Draw the water you will need for the siege. Strengthen your defences. Get down in the clay, tread the mud, take hold of the brick mould.

That is where the fire will eat you and the sword will cut you down. It will eat you the way young locusts eat. Breed like young locusts. Swarm like the full grown ones.

You bred more traders than there are stars in the sky. The locust strips the field bare and flies.

Your guards are locusts, your officers a swarm of them settling on the walls on a cold morning. The sun comes up and they are gone, and nobody knows where.

Your shepherds are asleep, king of Assyria. Your nobles have lain down. Your people are spread out over the mountains with nobody to bring them in.

There is no easing the break in your bones. Your wound will not close. Everyone who hears the news of you claps their hands, because who has not felt what you do, over and over?