Look, I know your thoughts; your plans harm me.
You say, "Where is the official's house? Where is the tent, the dwelling of the wicked?"
Haven't you asked travelers or paid attention to their reports?
On the day of disaster the wicked are spared; on the day of fury they are rescued.
Who can criticize their behavior to their faces; they act, and who can avenge them?
They are carried to their graves; someone keeps guard over their tombs.
The soil near the desert streambed is sweet to them; everyone marches after them— those before them, beyond counting.
How empty is your comfort to me; only deceit remains in your responses.