Job 27:13–23

“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.”

This is a wicked man’s lot from God,

the inheritance the ruthless receive from the Almighty.

Even if his children increase, they are destined for the sword;

his descendants will never have enough food.

Those who survive him will be buried by the plague,

yet their widows will not weep for them.

Though he piles up silver like dust

and heaps up fine clothing like clay—

he may heap it up, but the righteous will wear it,

and the innocent will divide up his silver.

The house he built is like a moth’s cocoon

or a shelter set up by a watchman.

He lies down wealthy, but will do so no more;

when he opens his eyes, it is gone.

Terrors overtake him like a flood;

a storm wind sweeps him away at night.

An east wind picks him up, and he is gone;

it carries him away from his place.

It blasts at him without mercy,

while he flees desperately from its force.

It claps its hands at him

and scoffs at him from its place.

“This is what the wicked will receive from God;

this is their inheritance from the Almighty.

They may have many children,

but the children will die in war or starve to death.

Those who survive will die of a plague,

and not even their widows will mourn them.

“Evil people may have piles of money

and may store away mounds of clothing.

But the righteous will wear that clothing,

and the innocent will divide that money.

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.

“This is the portion of the wicked human being with God,

and they receive from Shaddai the inheritance of the ruthless.

If their children multiply, it is for the sword,

and his offspring do not have enough to eat.

Their survivors are buried through the plague,

and their widows do not weep.

If he heaps up silver like the dust

and fashions clothing like the clay,

he makes it ready, and the righteous will wear it,

and the innocent will divide the silver.

“He builds his house like the moth,

and like a booth that a watchman has made.

He goes to bed with wealth, but he will do so no more;

he opens his eyes, and it is gone.

Terrors overtake him like the water;

a storm wind carries him off in the night.

The east wind lifts him up, and he is gone,

and it sweeps him away from his place.

And it hurls at him, and it has no compassion;

he will quickly flee from its power.

It claps its hands over him,

and it hisses at him from its place.

This is the portion of a wicked man with God,

And the heritage of oppressors, which they shall receive of the Almighty.

If his children be multiplied, it is for the sword:

And his offspring shall not be satisfied with bread.

Those that remain of him shall be buried in death:

And his widows shall not weep.

Though he heap up silver as the dust,

And prepare raiment as the clay;

He may prepare it, but the just shall put it on,

And the innocent shall divide the silver.

He buildeth his house as a moth,

And as a booth that the keeper maketh.

The rich man shall lie down, but he shall not be gathered:

He openeth his eyes, and he is not.

Terrors take hold on him as waters,

A tempest stealeth him away in the night.

The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth:

And as a storm hurleth him out of his place.

For God shall cast upon him, and not spare:

He would fain flee out of his hand.

Men shall clap their hands at him,

And shall hiss him out of his place.