I -- I have seen the perverse taking root, And I mark his habitation straightway,
Far are his sons from safety, And they are bruised in the gate, And there is no deliverer.
Whose harvest the hungry doth eat, And even from the thorns taketh it, And the designing swallowed their wealth.
For sorrow cometh not forth from the dust, Nor from the ground springeth up misery.
For man to misery is born, And the sparks go high to fly.
Yet I -- I inquire for God, And for God I give my word,
Doing great things, and there is no searching. Wonderful, till there is no numbering.
Who is giving rain on the face of the land, And is sending waters on the out-places.
To set the low on a high place, And the mourners have been high [in] safety.
Making void thoughts of the subtile, And their hands do not execute wisdom.
Capturing the wise in their subtilty, And the counsel of wrestling ones was hastened,