My spirit is broken, my days are ended, the last resting-place is ready for me.
For in a short time I will take the journey from which I will not come back.
My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the desires of my heart.
My breath is strange to my wife, and I am disgusting to the offspring of my mother's body.
And after this Job had a hundred and forty years of life, and saw his sons, and his sons' sons, even four generations.
Have I strength to go on waiting, or have I any end to be looking forward to?
My days go quicker than the cloth-worker's thread, and come to an end without hope.
For I will not give punishment for ever, or be angry without end: for from me breath goes out; and I it was who made the souls.