What is my strength, that I should hope? And what is my end, that I should be patient?
Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little,
Will You terrify a leaf driven to and fro? Will You pursue the dry stubble?
And he wears out like a rotten thing, like a garment that a moth eats.
My spirit is broken, my days are ended, the graves are ready for me.
If I wait for the grave as my home, I have made my bed in the darkness;
As for me, is my complaint to man? And why should my spirit not be troubled?
How have you helped the powerless, or saved the arm that has no strength?
Is my strength the strength of stones? Or is my flesh bronze?
He weakened my strength in the way; He shortened my days.
O Jehovah, make me to know my end, and the measure of my days, what it is; I know how frail I am.
Behold, You have made my days as a handbreadth, and my age is as nothing before You. Surely every man standing is altogether vanity. Selah.