"Surely no one lays a hand on a broken man1 when he cries for help in his distress.225
Have I not wept for those in trouble?3 Has not my soul grieved for the poor?426
Yet when I hoped for good, evil came; when I looked for light, then came darkness.527
The churning inside me never stops;6 days of suffering confront me.728
I go about blackened,8 but not by the sun; I stand up in the assembly and cry for help.929
I have become a brother of jackals,10 a companion of owls.1130
My skin grows black12 and peels;13 my body burns with fever.1431
My harp is tuned to mourning,15 and my flute16 to the sound of wailing.