He is moist before the sun, and his branches shoot forth in his garden.
It sent out its boughs to the sea, and its branches to the river.
Jehovah called your name, a green olive tree, fair, with fine fruit. With the sound of a great storm He has set fire to it, and its branches are worthless.
I have seen the fool taking root, but suddenly I cursed his dwelling place.
His roots are wrapped around the heap, and he sees the place of stones.