To the chief music-maker on Aijeleth-hash-shahar. A Psalm. Of David. My God, my God, why are you turned away from me? why are you so far from helping me, and from the words of my crying?
They have only now been planted, and their seed put into the earth, and they have only now taken root, when he sends out his breath over them and they become dry, and the storm-wind takes them away like dry grass.
Who sent out from the east one who is right wherever he goes? he gives the nations into his hands, and makes him ruler over kings; he gives them as the dust to his sword, as dry stems before the wind to his bow.
In whose hand is the instrument with which he will make clean his grain; he will put the good grain in his store, but the waste will be burned up in the fire which will never be put out.