“Here is the fate God allots to the wicked, the heritage a ruthless man receives from the Almighty:
However many his children, their fate is the sword; his offspring will never have enough to eat.
The plague will bury those who survive him, and their widows will not weep for them.
Though he heaps up silver like dust and clothes like piles of clay,
what he lays up the righteous will wear, and the innocent will divide his silver.
The house he builds is like a moth’s cocoon, like a hut made by a watchman.
He lies down wealthy, but will do so no more; when he opens his eyes, all is gone.
Terrors overtake him like a flood; a tempest snatches him away in the night.
The east wind carries him off, and he is gone; it sweeps him out of his place.
It hurls itself against him without mercy as he flees headlong from its power.
It claps its hands in derision and hisses him out of his place.”