The years of our life are seventy, or even, by reason of strength, eighty; yet their span is but toil and sorrow; they soon pass away, and we fly away.
And Jacob said to Pharaoh, “The days of the years of my pilgrimage are one hundred and thirty years. My days of the years of my life have been few and evil, and they have not attained to the days of the years of the lives of my fathers in the days of their pilgrimage.”
I am now eighty years old. Can I discern what is pleasant from what is harmful? Can your servant taste what I eat and what I drink? Can I still hear the voices of men and women who sing? Why, then, should your servant be a burden to my lord the king?
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.
I am still just as strong today as I was on the day that Moses sent me. My strength now is just like my strength then, both for battle and for going out and returning.