Till when, O Jehovah, have I cried, And Thou dost not hear? I cry unto Thee -- 'Violence,' and Thou dost not save.

Therefore doth law cease, And judgment doth not go forth for ever, For the wicked is compassing the righteous, Therefore wrong judgment goeth forth.

Look ye on nations, and behold and marvel greatly. For a work He is working in your days, Ye do not believe though it is declared.

For, lo, I am raising up the Chaldeans, The bitter and hasty nation, That is going to the broad places of earth, To occupy tabernacles not its own.

Art not Thou of old, O Jehovah, my God, my Holy One? We do not die, O Jehovah, For judgment Thou hast appointed it, And, O Rock, for reproof Thou hast founded it.

Purer of eyes than to behold evil, To look on perverseness Thou art not able, Why dost Thou behold the treacherous? Thou keepest silent when the wicked Doth swallow the more righteous than he,

Each of them with a hook he hath brought up, He doth catch it in his net, and gathereth it in his drag, Therefore he doth joy and rejoice.

Therefore he doth sacrifice to his net, And doth make perfume to his drag, For by them is his portion fertile, and his food fat.

Doth he therefore empty his net, And continually to slay nations spare not?

For yet the vision is for a season, And it breatheth for the end, and doth not lie, If it tarry, wait for it, For surely it cometh, it is not late.

Lo, a presumptuous one! Not upright is his soul within him, And the righteous by his stedfastness liveth.

And also, because the wine is treacherous, A man is haughty, and remaineth not at home, Who hath enlarged as sheol his soul, And is as death that is not satisfied, And doth gather unto itself all the nations, And doth assemble unto itself all the peoples,

Do not these -- all of them -- against him a simile taken up, And a moral of acute sayings for him, And say, Woe to him who is multiplying what is not his? Till when also is he multiplying to himself heavy pledges?

Do not thy usurers instantly rise up, And those shaking thee awake up, And thou hast been for a spoil to them?

Lo, is it not from Jehovah of Hosts And peoples are fatigued for fire, And nations for vanity are weary?

Though the fig-tree doth not flourish, And there is no produce among vines, Failed hath the work of the olive, And fields have not yielded food, Cut off from the fold hath been the flock, And there is no herd in the stalls.