What is my strength, that I should hope? and what is my end, that I should prolong my life?
Are not my days few? cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little,
Will you break a leaf driven to and fro? and will you pursue the dry stubble?
And he, as a rotten thing, consumes, as a garment that is moth eaten.
My breath is corrupt, my days are extinct, the graves are ready for me.
If I wait, the grave is my house: I have made my bed in the darkness.
As for me, is my complaint to man? and if it were so, why should not my spirit be troubled?
How have you helped him that is without power? how save you the arm that has no strength?
Is my strength the strength of stones? or is my flesh of brass?
He weakened my strength in the way; he shortened my days.
LORD, make me to know my end, and the measure of my days, what it is: that I may know how frail I am.
Behold, you have made my days as an handbreadth; and my age is as nothing before you: truly every man at his best state is altogether vanity. Selah.