The days of our years are seventy years; and if by strength we live eighty years, yet their pride is labor and sorrow; for it soon passes, and we fly away.
And Jacob said to Pharaoh, The days of the years of my camps are a hundred and thirty years. Few and evil have been the days of the years of my life and they have not reached the days of the years of the life of my fathers, in the days of their camps.
I am a son of eighty years today. Can I distinguish between good and evil? Can your servant taste that which I am eating, and that which I drink? Can I any more listen to the voice of singing men and singing women? And why should your servant be any more as a burden to my lord the king?
They are lifted up for a little while, but they are not; and they are brought low; they are gathered in like all others, and wither like the heads of ears of grain.
My generation is plucked up and removed from me, like a shepherd’s tent; I have cut off my life like the weaver. He will cut me off from the threads; from day to night You will make an end of me.