“Do not mortals have hard service on earth? Are not their days like those of hired laborers?
Like a slave longing for the evening shadows, or a hired laborer waiting to be paid,
so I have been allotted months of futility, and nights of misery have been assigned to me.
When I lie down I think, ‘How long before I get up?’ The night drags on, and I toss and turn until dawn.
My body is clothed with worms and scabs, my skin is broken and festering.
“My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and they come to an end without hope.