Job.
Chapter 7.
Is there not a warfare to man on earth? And as the days of an hireling his days? 
As a servant desireth the shadow, And as a hireling expecteth his wage, 
So I have been caused to inherit months of vanity, And nights of misery they numbered to me. 
If I lay down then I said, 'When do I rise!' And evening hath been measured, And I have been full of tossings till dawn. 
Clothed hath been my flesh with worms, And a clod of dust, My skin hath been shrivelled and is loathsome, 
My days swifter than a weaving machine, And they are consumed without hope. 
Remember Thou that my life is a breath, Mine eye turneth not back to see good. 
The eye of my beholder beholdeth me not. Thine eyes are upon me — and I am not. 
Consumed hath been a cloud, and it goeth, So he who is going down to Sheol cometh not up. 
He turneth not again to his house, Nor doth his place discern him again. 
Also I — I withhold not my mouth — I speak in the distress of my spirit, I talk in the bitterness of my soul. 
A sea -monster am I, or a dragon, That thou settest over me a guard? 
When I said, 'My bed doth comfort me,' He taketh away in my talking my couch. 
And thou hast affrighted me with dreams, And from visions thou terrifiest me, 
And my soul chooseth strangling, Death rather than my bones. 
I have wasted away — not to the age do I live. Cease from me, for my days are vanity. 
What is man that Thou dost magnify him? And that Thou settest unto him Thy heart? 
And inspectest him in the mornings, In the evenings dost try him? 
How long dost Thou not look from me? Thou dost not desist till I swallow my spittle. 
I have sinned, what do I to Thee, O watcher of man? Why hast Thou set me for a mark to Thee, And I am for a burden to myself — and what? 
Thou dost not take away my transgression, And cause to pass away mine iniquity, Because now, for dust I lie down: And Thou hast sought me — and I am not! 
