With misspent toil, these workers form a futile god from the same clay— these mortals who were made of earth a short time before and after a little while go to the earth from which all mortals are taken, when the time comes to return the souls that were borrowed.
But the workers are not concerned that mortals are destined to die or that their life is brief, but they compete with workers in gold and silver, and imitate workers in copper; and they count it a glorious thing to mold counterfeit gods.
Their heart is ashes, their hope is cheaper than dirt, and their lives are of less worth than clay,
because they failed to know the one who formed them and inspired them with active souls and breathed a living spirit into them.
But they considered our existence an idle game, and life a festival held for profit, for they say one must get money however one can, even by base means.