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 whence I shall not return.
My days are past, my plans are broken off, the desires of my heart.
I am repulsive to my wife, loathsome to the sons of my own mother.
And after this Job lived a hundred and forty years, and saw his sons, and his sons' sons, 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 contend for ever, nor will I always be angry; for from me proceeds the spirit, and I have made the breath of life.