אֹ֫סֵף

In a little more than a year you will tremble, O secure ones. For the grape harvest will fail and the fruit harvest will not arrive.

Your spoil, O nations, is gathered as by locusts; like a swarm of locusts men sweep over it.

Woe is me! For I am like one gathering summer fruit at the gleaning of the vineyard; there is no cluster to eat, no early fig that I crave.