Job.
Chapter 30.
But now they that are younger than I hold me in derision, Whose fathers I would have disdained to set with the dogs of my flock. 
Of what use to me would be even the strength of their hands, To whom old age is lost? 
By want and hunger they are famished; They gnaw the dry desert, The darkness of desolate wastes. 
They gather purslain among the bushes, And the root of the broom is their bread. 
They are driven from the society of men; There is a cry after them as after a thief. 
They dwell in gloomy valleys, In caves of the earth and in rocks. 
They bray among the bushes; Under the brambles are they stretched out. 
An impious and low-born race, They are beaten out of the land. 
And now I am become their song; Yea, I am their by-word! 
They abhor me, they stand aloof from me; They forbear not to spit before my face. 
Yea, they let loose the reins, and humble me; They cast off the bridle before me. 
On my right hand riseth up the brood; They thrust away my feet; They cast up against me their destructive ways. 
They break up my path; They hasten my fall,—They who have no helper! 
They come upon me as through a wide breach; Through the ruins they rush in upon me. 
Terrors are turned against me; They pursue my prosperity like the wind, And my welfare passeth away like a cloud. 
And now my soul poureth itself out upon me; Days of affliction have taken hold of me. 
By night my bones are pierced; they are torn from me, And my gnawers take no rest. 
Through the violence of my disease is my garment changed; It bindeth me about like the collar of my tunic. 
He hath cast me into the mire, And I am become like dust and ashes. 
I call upon Thee, but thou dost not hear me; I stand up before thee, but thou regardest me not. 
Thou art become cruel to me; With thy strong hand dost thou lie in wait for me. 
Thou liftest me up, and causest me to ride upon the wind; Thou meltest me away in the storm. 
I know that thou wilt bring me to death, To the place of assembly for all the living. 
When He stretcheth out his hand, prayer availeth nothing; When He bringeth destruction, vain is the cry for help. 
Did not I weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the poor? 
But when I looked for good, then evil came; When I looked for light, then came darkness. 
My bowels boil, and have no rest; Days of anguish have come upon me. 
I am black, but not by the sun; I stand up, and utter my cries in the congregation. 
I am become a brother to jackals, And a companion to ostriches. 
My skin is black, and falleth from me, And my bones burn with heat. 
My harp also is turned to mourning, And my pipe to notes of grief. 
