My spirit is broken, my days have faded out, the grave awaits me.
For the years that lie ahead are few, and then I will go on the way of no return.
My days have passed, my plans are shattered, even the desires of my heart.
My breath is repulsive to my wife; I am loathsome to my brothers.
After this Job lived 140 years; he saw his children and their children to the fourth generation.
What is my strength, that I should wait? and what is my end, that I should prolong my life?
My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle and they come to an end without hope.
For I will not be hostile forever or perpetually angry, for then man’s spirit would grow faint before me, the life-giving breath I created.