Whose fan is in his hand, and he will clear out his threshing-floor,—and will gather his wheat into the granary, but, the chaff, will he burn up with fire unquenchable.
Though nations like the rushing of many waters, shall rush, Yet shall one rebuke him, And he shall flee far away,—And be chased As the chaff of the mountains before a wind, And as whirling stubble before a storm!
Therefore, shall they become like the morning cloud, and like the dew early departing,—like chaff storm-driven out of the threshing-floor, and like smoke out of a chimney.
Then shall be as fine dust the multitude of thy foreigners,—And as chaff that passeth away, the multitude of tyrants; And it shall come to pass, in a twinkling, Suddenly,