Who are glad -- unto joy, They rejoice when they find a grave.
And the eyes of the wicked are consumed, And refuge hath perished from them, And their hope `is' a breathing out of soul!
Sweet to him have been the clods of the valley, And after him every man he draweth, And before him there is no numbering.
Who are waiting for death, and it is not, And they seek it above hid treasures.
To a man whose way hath been hidden, And whom God doth shut up?
And yet it is my comfort, (And I exult in pain -- He doth not spare,) That I have not hidden The sayings of the Holy One.
O that my request may come, That God may grant my hope!
And my soul chooseth strangling, Death rather than my bones.
And I am praising the dead who have already died above the living who are yet alive.
And better than both of them `is' he who hath not yet been, in that he hath not seen the evil work that hath been done under the sun.
And chosen is death rather than life By all the remnant who are left of this evil family, In all the remaining places, whither I have driven them, An affirmation of Jehovah of Hosts.