8 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.
9 Crooked 'is' the heart above all things, And it 'is' incurable -- who doth know it?
10 I Jehovah do search the heart, try the reins, Even to give to each according to his way, According to the fruit of his doings.
11 A partridge hatching, and not bringing forth, 'Is' one making wealth, and not by right, In the midst of his days he doth forsake it, And in his latter end -- he is a fool.
12 A throne of honour on high from the beginning, The place of our sanctuary,
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