For in thine anger all our days do pass on to an end; And as a tale that hath been told, so we our years do spend.
Wherefore their days in vanity he did consume and waste; And by his wrath their wretched years away in trouble past.
Lo, thou my days an handbreadth mad'st; mine age is in thine eye As nothing: sure each man at best is wholly vanity.
Because a thousand years appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday, when it is past, or than a watch by night.
Let them be like unto the chaff that flies before the wind; And let the angel of the Lord pursue them hard behind.
Attend my cry, Lord, at my tears and pray'rs not silent be: I sojourn as my fathers all, and stranger am with thee.