Have I not wept for those in trouble? Has not my soul grieved for the poor?
Yet when I hoped for good, evil came; when I looked for light, then came darkness.
The churning inside me never stops; days of suffering confront me.
I go about blackened, but not by the sun; I stand up in the assembly and cry for help.
I have become a brother of jackals, a companion of owls.
My skin grows black and peels; my body burns with fever.
My lyre is tuned to mourning, and my pipe to the sound of wailing.