“But now I am mocked by people younger than I, by young men whose fathers are not worthy to run with my sheepdogs.
A lot of good they are to me— those worn-out wretches!
They are gaunt from poverty and hunger. They claw the dry ground in desolate wastelands.
They pluck wild greens from among the bushes and eat from the roots of broom trees.
They are driven from human society, and people shout at them as if they were thieves.
So now they live in frightening ravines, in caves and among the rocks.
They sound like animals howling among the bushes, huddled together beneath the nettles.
They are nameless fools, outcasts from society.
“And now they mock me with vulgar songs! They taunt me!
They despise me and won’t come near me, except to spit in my face.
For God has cut my bowstring. He has humbled me, so they have thrown off all restraint.
These outcasts oppose me to my face. They send me sprawling and lay traps in my path.
They block my road and do everything they can to destroy me. They know I have no one to help me.
They come at me from all directions. They jump on me when I am down.
I live in terror now. My honor has blown away in the wind, and my prosperity has vanished like a cloud.
“And now my life seeps away. Depression haunts my days.
At night my bones are filled with pain, which gnaws at me relentlessly.
With a strong hand, God grabs my shirt. He grips me by the collar of my coat.
He has thrown me into the mud. I’m nothing more than dust and ashes.
“I cry to you, O God, but you don’t answer. I stand before you, but you don’t even look.
You have become cruel toward me. You use your power to persecute me.
You throw me into the whirlwind and destroy me in the storm.
And I know you are sending me to my death— the destination of all who live.
“Surely no one would turn against the needy when they cry for help in their trouble.
Did I not weep for those in trouble? Was I not deeply grieved for the needy?
So I looked for good, but evil came instead. I waited for the light, but darkness fell.
My heart is troubled and restless. Days of suffering torment me.
I walk in gloom, without sunlight. I stand in the public square and cry for help.
Instead, I am considered a brother to jackals and a companion to owls.
My skin has turned dark, and my bones burn with fever.
My harp plays sad music, and my flute accompanies those who weep.