My days are swifter than a runner; they flee and don't experience good.
They sweep by like ships made of reeds, as an eagle swoops on prey.
If I say, "I'll forget my lament, put on a different face so I can smile,"
I'm still afraid of all my suffering; I know that you won't declare me innocent.
I myself am thought guilty; why have I tried so hard in vain?
If I wash myself with snow, purify my hands with soap,
then you'll hurl me into a slimy pit so that my clothes detest me.
God is not a man like me—someone I could answer— so that we could come together in court.
Oh, that there were a mediator between us; he would lay his hand on both of us,
remove his rod from me, so his fury wouldn't frighten me.
Then I would speak—unafraid— for I'm not that way.