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.
Remember, O God, that my life is but a breath; my eyes will never see happiness again.
The eye that now sees me will see me no longer; you will look for me, but I will be no more.
As a cloud vanishes and is gone, so one who goes down to the grave does not return.
He will never come to his house again; his place will know him no more.
“Therefore I will not keep silent; I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit, I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
Am I the sea, or the monster of the deep, that you put me under guard?
When I think my bed will comfort me and my couch will ease my complaint,
even then you frighten me with dreams and terrify me with visions,
so that I prefer strangling and death, rather than this body of mine.