This is the fate that God assigns to the wicked, the inheritance that the violent receive from Shaddai. Though he have many children, it is but for the sword; his descendants will never have enough to eat. Plague will bury those he leaves behind him, and their widows will have no chance to mourn them.

Though he amass silver like dust and gather fine clothes like clay, let him gather!-some good man will wear them, while his silver is shared among the upright. All he has built himself is a spider's web, made himself a watchman's shack. He goes to bed rich, but never again: he wakes to find it has all gone. As drought and heat make snow disappear, so does Sheol anyone who has sinned.

Terror assails him in broad daylight, and at night a whirlwind sweeps him off. The womb that shaped him forgets him and his name is recalled no longer. Thus wickedness is blasted as a tree is struck. An east wind picks him up and drags him away, snatching him up from his homestead. He used to ill-treat the childless woman and show no kindness to the widow. Pitilessly he is turned into a target, and forced to flee from the hands that menace him. But he who lays mighty hold on tyrants rises up to take away a life that seemed secure.

His downfall is greeted with applause, he is hissed wherever he goes. He is no more than a straw floating on the water, his estate is accursed throughout the land, nobody goes near his vineyard. He let him build his hopes on false security, but kept his eyes on every step he took. He had his time of glory, now he vanishes, wilting like the saltwort once it is picked, and withering like an ear of corn. (Job 27:13-24)