To the Chief Musician, on the deer of the dawn. A Psalm of David. My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me, and are far from My deliverance, from the words of My groaning?
Yea, they shall not be planted; yea, they are not sown; yea, their stem is not taking root in the earth. And He also blows on them, and they shall wither, and the tempest shall lift them up like stubble.
Who raised up in righteousness from the east? He called him to His foot; He gives nations before him, and subdues kings; He gives them as dust to his sword, as driven stubble to his bow;
whose fan is in His hand, and He will cleanse His threshing-floor and will gather His wheat into the storehouse. But He will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire.