Like a shepherd’s tent, my dwelling is pulled up and carried away from me. Like a weaver I rolled up my life. He cuts me off from the loom. From day until night You make my end.
It will never be inhabited, nor will it be dwelt in from generation to generation, nor will an Arab pitch a tent there, nor will shepherds let flocks lie there.
For we groan while we are in this tent—burdened because we don’t want to be unclothed but to be clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.