The Fleeting Hope of the Wicked

Job 8:11-19

`Doth a rush wise without mire? A reed increase without water?

While it is in its budding--uncropped, Even before any herb it withereth.

So are the paths of all forgetting God, And the hope of the profane doth perish,

Whose confidence is loathsome, And the house of a spider his trust.

He leaneth on his house--and it standeth not: He taketh hold on it--and it abideth not.

Green he is before the sun, And over his garden his branch goeth out.

By a heap his roots are wrapped, A house of stones he looketh for.

If one doth destroy him from his place, Then it hath feigned concerning him, I have not seen thee!

Lo, this is the joy of his way, And from the dust others spring up.'