My spirit is broken, my days extinguished, the grave, mine.
Surely mockers are with me, and my eye looks on their rebellion.
Take my guarantee. Who else is willing to make an agreement?
You've closed their mind to insight; therefore, you won't be exalted.
He denounces his friends for gain, and his children's eyes fail.
He makes me a popular proverb; I'm like spit in people's faces.
My eye is weak from grief; my limbs like a shadow—all of them.
Those who do the right thing are amazed at this; the guiltless become troubled about the godless.
The innocent clings to his way; the one whose hands are clean grows stronger.
But you can bring all of them again, and I won't find a wise one among you.
My days have passed; my goals are destroyed, my heart's desires.
They turn night into day; light is near because of the darkness.
If I hope for the underworld as my dwelling, lay out my bed in darkness,
I've called corruption "my father," the worm, "my mother and sister."
Where then is my hope? My hope—who can see it?
Will they go down with me to the underworld; will we descend together to the dust?