My spirit shall be wasted; my days shall be shortened: and only the grave remaineth for me.
For I will not contend for ever, neither will I be angry unto the end: because the spirit shall go forth from my face, end breathings I will make.
And Job lived after these things a hundred and forty years: and he saw his children, and his children's children, unto the fourth generation. And he died, an old man and full of days.
My wife hath abhorred my breath, and I entreated the children of my womb.
For what is my strength, that I can hold out? Or what is my end that I should keep patience?
My days have passed more swiftly than the web is cut by the weaver, and are consumed without any hope.
And O that a man might so be judged with God, as the son of man is judged with his companion!
My days have passed away, my thoughts are dissipated, tormenting my heart.