Though I am right, still I am in pain; my wound may not be made well, though I have done no wrong.
His bowmen come round about me; their arrows go through my body without mercy; my life is drained out on the earth.
I am clean, without sin; I am washed, and there is no evil in me:
For the arrows of the Ruler of all are present with me, and their poison goes deep into my spirit: his army of fears is put in order against me.
Why is my pain unending and my wound without hope of being made well? Sorrow is mine, for you are to me as a stream offering false hope and as waters which are not certain.