All of us are born of women, have few days, and are full of turmoil.
Like a flower, we bloom, then wither, flee like a shadow, and don't last.
(Yes, you open your eyes on this one; you bring me into trial against you.)
Who can make pure from impure? Nobody.
If our days are fixed, the number of our months with you, you set a statute and we can't exceed it.
Look away from us that we may rest, until we are satisfied like a worker at day's end.
Indeed there is hope for a tree. If it's cut down and still sprouting and its shoots don't fail,
if its roots age in the ground and its stump dies in the dust,
at the scent of water, it will bud and produce sprouts like a plant.
But a human dies and lies there; a person expires, and where is he?
Water vanishes from the sea; a river dries up completely.
But a human lies down and doesn't rise until the heavens cease; they don't get up and awaken from sleep.
I wish you would hide me in the underworld, conceal me until your anger passes, set a time for me, and remember me.
If people die, will they live again? All the days of my service I would wait until my restoration took place.
You would call, and I would answer you; you would long for your handiwork.
Though you now number my steps, you would not keep a record of my sin.
My rebellion is sealed in a bag; you would cover my sin.
But an eroding mountain breaks up, and rock is displaced.
Water wears away boulders; floods carry away soil; you destroy a people's hope.
You overpower them relentlessly, and they die; you change their appearance and send them away.
Their children achieve honor, and they don't know it; their children become insignificant, and they don't see it.
They only feel the pain of their body, and they mourn for themselves.