Village Dibon climbs to its chapel in the hills, goes up to lament. Moab weeps and wails over Nebo and Medba. Every head is shaved bald, every beard shaved clean.
Oh, how I grieve for Moab! Refugees stream to Zoar and then on to Eglath-shelishiyah. Up the slopes of Luhith they weep; on the road to Horonaim they cry their loss.
The banks of the Dibon crest with blood, but God has worse in store for Dibon: A lion--a lion to finish off the fugitives, to clean up whoever's left in the land.