A rejoicing heart doth good to the body, And a smitten spirit drieth the bone.
Dried up as an earthen vessel is my power, And my tongue is cleaving to my jaws.
Sorrow in the heart of a man boweth down, And a good word maketh him glad.
A joyful heart maketh glad the face, And by grief of heart is the spirit smitten.
Sayings of pleasantness `are' a honeycomb, Sweet to the soul, and healing to the bone.
The spirit of a man sustaineth his sickness, And a smitten spirit who doth bear?
Of laughter I said, `Foolish!' and of mirth, `What `is' this it is doing?'
so that, on the contrary, `it is' rather for you to forgive and to comfort, lest by over abundant sorrow such a one may be swallowed up;
for the sorrow toward God reformation to salvation not to be repented of doth work, and the sorrow of the world doth work death,