My dwelling is pulled up and removed from me as a shepherd’s tent; I rolled up my life like a weaver. He cuts me off from the loom; from day even to night You make an end of me.
It shall never be inhabited, nor shall it be lived in from generation to generation, nor shall the Arabian pitch a tent there, nor shall the shepherds make their fold there.
For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we wish to be unclothed, but to be further clothed, so that what is mortal might be swallowed up by life.