Look, the wages you have held back from the workers who mowed your (hymōn | ὑμῶν | gen pl 2nd) fields are crying out against you (hymōn | ὑμῶν | gen pl 2nd), and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of Hosts.
Your (hymōn | ὑμῶν | gen pl 2nd) gold and your silver have rusted and their rust will be a witness against you (hymin | ὑμῖν | dat pl 2nd), and it will consume your (hymōn | ὑμῶν | gen pl 2nd) flesh like fire. You have stored up treasure for the last days.
You have no idea what your (hymōn | ὑμῶν | gen pl 2nd) life will be like tomorrow. For you are but a mist that appears for a brief moment and then disappears.