And thou hast known that thy tent is peace, And inspected thy habitation, and errest not,

Those hating thee do put on shame, And the tent of the wicked is not!

The light hath been dark in his tent, And his lamp over him is extinguished.

Drawn from his tent is his confidence, And it causeth him to step to the king of terrors.

It dwelleth in his tent -- out of his provender, Scattered over his habitation is sulphur.

Come in do His troops together, And they raise up against me their way, And encamp round about my tent.

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

For ye say, 'Where is the house of the noble? And where the tent -- The tabernacles of the wicked?'

As I have been in days of my maturity, And the counsel of God upon my tent.

If not -- say ye, O men of my tent, 'O that we had of his flesh, we are not satisfied.'