17
He may pile it up, but the just will wear it, And the innocent will divide the silver.
18
He builds his house like a moth, Like a booth which a watchman makes.
19
The rich man will lie down, But not be gathered up; He opens his eyes, And he is no more.
20
Terrors overtake him like a flood; A tempest steals him away in the night.
21
The east wind carries him away, and he is gone; It sweeps him out of his place.
22
It hurls against him and does not spare; He flees desperately from its power.
23
Men shall clap their hands at him, And shall hiss him out of his place.