I'm counted with those that go down to pit, and no strength have.
To thee I'll cry, O Lord, my rock; hold not thy peace to me; Lest like those that to pit descend I by thy silence be.
Haste, Lord, to hear, my spirit fails: hide not thy face from me; Lest like to them I do become that go down to the dust.
Ev'n so I am forgot, As men are out of mind when dead: I'm like a broken pot.
What profit is there in my blood, when I go down to pit? Shall unto thee the dust give praise? thy truth declare shall it?