My spirit is broken, my days are extinct, the grave is ready for me.
For when a few years have come, I shall go the way from which I shall not return.
My days are past, my plans are broken off, the desires of my heart.
My breath is repulsive to my wife; I am loathsome to my own family.
After this Job lived one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children's children, four generations.
What is my strength, that I should wait? And what is my end, that I should be patient?
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and come to their end without hope.
For I will not continually accuse, nor will I always be angry; for then the spirits would grow faint before me, even the souls that I have made.