The wicked build houses as fragile as a spider’s web, as flimsy as a shelter made of branches.
The wicked go to bed rich but wake to find that all their wealth is gone.
Terror overwhelms them like a flood, and they are blown away in the storms of the night.
The east wind carries them away, and they are gone. It sweeps them away.
It whirls down on them without mercy. They struggle to flee from its power.
But everyone jeers at them and mocks them.