In the morning it flourisheth, and hath changed, At evening it is cut down, and hath withered.
As a flower he hath gone forth, and is cut off, And he fleeth as a shadow and standeth not.
And Thou, O Jehovah, to the age abidest, And Thy memorial to all generations.
From the voice of my sighing Hath my bone cleaved to my flesh.
When the wicked flourish as a herb, And blossom do all workers of iniquity -- For their being destroyed for ever and ever!
A voice is saying, `Call,' And he said, `What do I call?' All flesh `is' grass, and all its goodliness `is' As a flower of the field:
`And if the herb of the field, that to-day is, and to-morrow is cast to the furnace, God doth so clothe -- not much more you, O ye of little faith?
for the sun did rise with the burning heat, and did wither the grass, and the flower of it fell, and the grace of its appearance did perish, so also the rich in his way shall fade away!