Scarcely are they planted, scarcely sown, scarcely their stem rooted in the earth, When he breathes upon them and they wither, and the stormwind carries them away like straw.
Anyone who does not remain in me will be thrown out like a branch and wither; people will gather them and throw them into a fire and they will be burned.
These are blemishes on your love feasts, as they carouse fearlessly and look after themselves. They are waterless clouds blown about by winds, fruitless trees in late autumn, twice dead and uprooted.