My spirit hath been destroyed, My days extinguished -- graves `are' for me.
When a few years do come, Then a path I return not do I go.
My days have passed by, My devices have been broken off, The possessions of my heart!
My spirit is strange to my wife, And my favours to the sons of my `mother's' womb.
And Job liveth after this a hundred and forty years, and seeth his sons, and his sons' sons, four generations;
What `is' my power that I should hope? And what mine end That I should prolong my life?
My days swifter than a weaving machine, And they are consumed without hope.
For, not to the age do I strive, nor for ever am I wroth, For the spirit from before Me is feeble, And the souls I have made.