And I make it a waste, It is not pruned, nor arranged, And gone up have brier and thorn, And on the thick clouds I lay a charge, From raining upon it rain.
And hath been as a tree planted by waters, And by a rivulet he sendeth forth his roots, And he doth not see when heat cometh, And his leaf hath been green, And in a year of dearth he is not sorrowful, Nor doth he cease from making fruit.