Surely he won't strike someone in ruins if in distress he cries out to him,
if I didn't weep for those who have a difficult day or my soul grieve for the needy;
for I awaited good, but evil came; I expected light, but gloom arrived.
My insides, churning, are never quiet; days of affliction confront me.
I walk in the dark, lacking sunshine; I rise in the assembly and cry out.
I have become a brother to jackals, a companion to young ostriches.
My skin is charred; my bones are scorched by the heat.
My lyre is for mourning, my flute, a weeping sound.