My spirit is in trouble; my days are extinguished; graves are for me.
For years of number will come; and I shall not return the way I shall go.
My days have passed; my plans are broken off, the desires of my heart.
My breath is also being strange to my wife, and I must beg to the sons of my mother’s womb.
After this Job lived a hundred and forty years. And he saw his sons, and his grandsons, even four generations.
What is my strength that I should wait? And what is my end that I should prolong my life?
My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle and end without hope.
For I will not contend forever, and I will not always be angry, for the spirit would faint before Me, even the breaths I have made.