What strength do I have, that I should still hope? What is my future, that I should be patient?
For He knows our frame; He is mindful that we are dust.
“My spirit is broken; my days are extinguished; the grave awaits me.
He has broken my strength on the way; He has cut short my days.
You, indeed, have made my days as handbreadths, and my lifetime as nothing before You. Truly each man at his best exists
You sweep them away in their sleep; they are like the new grass of the morning—
Would You frighten a windblown leaf? Would You chase after dry chaff?
Are my days not few? Withdraw from me, that I may have a little comfort,
and say to corruption, ‘You are my father,’ and to the worm, ‘My mother,’ or ‘My sister,’
So man wastes away like something rotten, like a moth-eaten garment.
My flesh is clothed with worms and encrusted with dirt; my skin is cracked and festering.
Is my complaint against a man? Then why should I not be impatient?