There is not a remnant to his food, Therefore his good doth not stay.

In the fulness of his sufficiency he is straitened. Every perverse hand doth meet him.

All darkness is hid for his treasures, Consume him doth a fire not blown, Broken is the remnant in his tent.

It cometh to pass, at the filling of his belly, He sendeth forth against him The fierceness of His anger, Yea, He raineth on him in his eating.

Remove doth the increase of his house, Poured forth in a day of His anger.

He fleeth from an iron weapon, Pass through him doth a bow of brass.

Reveal do the heavens his iniquity, And earth is raising itself against him.

And Zophar the Naamathite answereth and saith: --

One hath drawn, And it cometh out from the body, And a glittering weapon from his gall proceedeth. On him are terrors.

That the singing of the wicked is short, And the joy of the profane for a moment,

This is the portion of a wicked man from God. And an inheritance appointed him by God.

Though he doth sweeten evil in his mouth, Doth hide it under his tongue,

Gall of asps he sucketh, Slay him doth the tongue of a viper.

As a dream he fleeth, and they find him not, And he is driven away as a vision of the night,

For he oppressed -- he forsook the poor, A house he hath taken violently away, And he doth not build it.

This hast thou known from antiquity? Since the placing of man on earth?

The chastisement of my shame I hear, And the spirit of mine understanding Doth cause me to answer:

Therefore my thoughts cause me to answer, And because of my sensations in me.

For he hath not known ease in his belly. With his desirable thing he delivereth not himself.

His food in his bowels is turned, The bitterness of asps is in his heart.

As his own dung for ever he doth perish, His beholders say: 'Where is he?'

He looketh not on rivulets, Flowing of brooks of honey and butter.

Wealth he hath swallowed, and doth vomit it. From his belly God driveth it out.

Hath pity on it, and doth not forsake it, And keep it back in the midst of his palate,

His bones have been full of his youth, And with him on the dust it lieth down.

He is giving back what he laboured for, And doth not consume it; As a bulwark is his exchange, and he exults not.

Though his excellency go up to the heavens, And his head against a cloud he strike --

His sons do the poor oppress, And his hands give back his wealth.

The eye hath not seen him, and addeth not. And not again doth his place behold him.