“My spirit is broken. My days have been snuffed out. The cemetery ⌞is waiting⌟ for me.
because in a few short years I will take the path of no return.
My days are passing by. My plans are broken. My dreams ⌞are shattered⌟.
My breath offends my wife. I stink to my own children.
Job lived 140 years after this. He saw his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
What strength do I have ⌞left⌟ that I can go on hoping? What goal do I have that I would want to prolong my life?
My days go swifter than a weaver’s shuttle. They are spent without hope.
I will not accuse you forever. I will not be angry with you forever. Otherwise, the spirits, the lives of those I’ve made, would grow faint in my presence.