With a strong hand, God grabs my shirt. He grips me by the collar of my coat.
He has thrown me into the mud. I’m nothing more than dust and ashes.
“I cry to you, O God, but you don’t answer. I stand before you, but you don’t even look.
You have become cruel toward me. You use your power to persecute me.
You throw me into the whirlwind and destroy me in the storm.
And I know you are sending me to my death— the destination of all who live.
“Surely no one would turn against the needy when they cry for help in their trouble.
Did I not weep for those in trouble? Was I not deeply grieved for the needy?
So I looked for good, but evil came instead. I waited for the light, but darkness fell.
My heart is troubled and restless. Days of suffering torment me.
I walk in gloom, without sunlight. I stand in the public square and cry for help.
Instead, I am considered a brother to jackals and a companion to owls.
My skin has turned dark, and my bones burn with fever.
My harp plays sad music, and my flute accompanies those who weep.