Should I lie, contrary to my being right? my wound is incurable, though I have not transgressed.
His archers surround me, he breaks my kidneys apart, and does not spare; he pours out my gall upon the ground.
I am clean without transgression, I am innocent; neither is there iniquity in me.
For the arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison of which my spirit drinks up: the terrors of God set themselves in formation against me.
Why is my pain perpetual, and my wound incurable, which refuses to be healed? will you be altogether to me as a liar, and as waters that fail?