Listen to me; I will argue with you; what I've seen, I will declare to you;
what the wise have told and have not concealed from their family,
to whom alone the earth was given and no stranger passed in their midst.
All the days of the wicked are painful; the number of years reserved for the hateful;
a sound of terror pierces their ears; when safe, raiders overtake them.
They can't count on turning away from darkness; they are destined for a sword.
They wander about for bread. "Where is it?" They know that their day of darkness is fixed.
Adversity and stress scare them, master them like a king ready to strike;
for they raise a fist against God and try to overpower the Almighty.
They run toward him aggressively, with a massive and strong shield.
They cover their face with grease and make their loins gross.
They lived in ruined cities, unoccupied houses that turn to rubble.
They won't get rich; their wealth won't last; their property won't extend over the earth.
They can't turn away from darkness; a flame will dry out their shoots, and they will be taken away by the wind from his mouth.
They shouldn't trust in what has no worth, for their reward will be worthless.
Before their branch is formed, before it is green,
like the vine, they will drop early grapes and cast off their blossoms like the olive.
The ruthless gang is barren, and fire consumes the tents of bribers.
They conceive toil and give birth to sorrow; their belly establishes deceit.