Job 7

¹The life of man upon earth is a warfare, and his days are like the days of a hireling.

²As a servant longeth for the shade, as the hireling looketh for the end of his work;

³So I also have had empty months, and have numbered to myself wearisome nights.

⁴If I lie down to sleep, I shall say: When shall arise? and again I shall look for the evening, and shall be filled with sorrows even till darkness.

⁵My flesh is clothed with rottenness and the filth of dust, my skin is withered and drawn together.

⁶My days have passed more swiftly than the web is cut by the weaver, and are consumed without any hope.

⁷Remember that my life is but wind, and my eyes shall not return to see good things.

⁸Nor shall the sight of man behold me: thy eyes are upon me, and I shall be no more.

⁹As a cloud is consumed, and passeth away: so he that shall go down to hell shall not come up.

¹⁰Nor shall he return my more into his house, neither shall his place know him any more.

¹¹Wherefore I will not spare my month, I will speak in the affliction of my spirit: I will talk with the bitterness of my soul.

¹²Am I a sea, or a whale, that thou hast enclosed me in a prison?

¹³If I say: My bed shall comfort me, and I shall be relieved speaking with myself on my couch:

¹⁴Thou wilt frighten me with dreams and terrify me with visions.

¹⁵So that my soul rather chooseth hanging, and my bones death.

I have done with hope, I shall now live no longer: spare me, for my days are nothing.