From the voice of my sighing Hath my bone cleaved to my flesh.
As a flower he hath gone forth, and is cut off, And he fleeth as a shadow and standeth not.
To my skin and to my flesh Cleaved hath my bone, And I deliver myself with the skin of my teeth.
I have been weary with my sighing, I meditate through all the night `on' my bed, With my tear my couch I waste.
Turn from me all ye workers of iniquity, For Jehovah heard the voice of my weeping,
In the morning it flourisheth, and hath changed, At evening it is cut down, and hath withered.
A rejoicing heart doth good to the body, And a smitten spirit drieth the bone.
Darker than blackness hath been their visage, They have not been known in out-places, Cleaved hath their skin unto their bone, It hath withered -- it hath been as wood.
And so he doth year by year, from the time of her going up into the house of Jehovah, so it provoketh her, and she weepeth, and doth not eat.