The days of our years are threescore years and ten, or even by reason of strength fourscore years, yet their pride is but labor and sorrow, for it is soon gone, and we fly away.
I am this day eighty years old. Can I discern between good and bad? Can thy servant taste what I eat or what I drink? Can I hear any more the voice of singing men and singing women? Why then should thy servant be yet a burden to my
And Jacob said to Pharaoh, The days of the years of my pilgrimage are a hundred and thirty years. Few and evil have been the days of the years of my life, and they have not attained to the days of the years of the life of my father
They are exalted. Yet a little while, and they are gone. Yea, they are brought low. They are taken out of the way as all others, and are cut off as the tops of the ears of grain.
My dwelling is removed, and is carried away from me as a shepherd's tent. I have rolled up, like a weaver, my life. He will cut me off from the loom. From day even to night thou will make an end of me.
As yet I am as strong this day as I was in the day that Moses sent me. As my strength was then, even so is my strength now, for war, and to go out and to come in.