Then all of a sudden we’re gone, like grass clippings blown away in a gust of wind, taken away to our appointment with death, leaving nothing to show that we were here.
The grass withers, the flower fades when the breath of Yahweh blows upon it; the people are just like grass!
A voice says, “Cry out!” And I ask, “What should I say?” “All people are as frail as grass, and their elegance is like a wilting wildflower.