*My spirit is consumed. My days are extinct, And the grave is ready for me.
For when a few years are come, I shall go the way from whence I shall not return.
My days are past, my plans are broken off, as are the thoughts of my heart.
My breath is offensive to my wife. I am loathsome to the children of my own mother.
After this Iyov lived one hundred forty years, and saw his sons, and his sons' sons, to four generations.
What is my strength, that I should wait? What is my end, that I should be patient?
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope.
For I will not contend forever, neither will I be always angry; for the spirit would faint before me, and the souls who I have made.