My dwelling is plucked up and removed from me like a shepherd’s tent. I have rolled up my life like a weaver; he cuts me off from the loom. By nightfall you make an end of me.
Indeed, we groan while we are in this tent, burdened as we are, because we do not want to be unclothed but clothed, so that mortality may be swallowed up by life.
It will never be inhabited or lived in from generation to generation; a nomad will not pitch his tent there, and shepherds will not let their flocks rest there.