"Is this not the struggle of all humanity? A person's life is long and hard, like that of a hired hand,
like a worker who longs for the day to end, like a servant waiting to be paid.
I, too, have been assigned months of futility, long and weary nights of misery.
When I go to bed, I think, 'When will it be morning?' But the night drags on, and I toss till dawn.
My skin is filled with worms and scabs. My flesh breaks open, full of pus."
"My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle flying back and forth. They end without hope.