You have plowed up wickedness, you have reaped iniquity. You have eaten the fruit of delusion, for you have trusted in your own way, in the multitude of your mighty men.
I further observed under the sun: The race is not to the swift nor the battle to the mighty, nor does bread come to the wise, or wealth to the discerning, or favor to the skillful; for time and chance befall them all.
In the day that you plant, you fence it in, and in the morning you made your seed to sprout— but the harvest will be a heap in a day of grief and incurable pain.
“For they sow wind, and reap a whirlwind. There is no mature grain— the sprout yields no meal. Should it produce anything, strangers would swallow it up.