By reason of the voice of my groaning, my bones stick to my skin.
He grows up like a flower, and is cut down. He also flees like a shadow, and doesn’t continue.
My bones stick to my skin and to my flesh. I have escaped by the skin of my teeth.
I am weary with my groaning. Every night I flood my bed. I drench my couch with my tears.
Depart from me, all you workers of iniquity, for the LORD has heard the voice of my weeping.
In the morning it sprouts and springs up. By evening, it is withered and dry.
A cheerful heart makes good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.
Their appearance is blacker than a coal. They are not known in the streets. Their skin clings to their bones. It is withered. It has become like wood.
So year by year, when she went up to the LORD’s house, her rival provoked her. Therefore she wept, and didn’t eat.