Old Testament · Poetry and wisdom

Job chapter 7

Isn’t a man’s time on earth ? Aren’t his days the days of a hired hand?Like a slave gasping for shade, like —that is what I was handed: months of nothing, and nights of misery counted out for me.I lie down and think, when do I get up? The night stretches out, and I get my fill of turning over until first light.My body wears maggots and crusted dirt. My skin scabs over and splits open again.My days run faster than a weaver’s shuttle, and they run out when the does.Remember, my life is one breath. My eyes will not see anything good again.The eye that looks for me will not find me. You will turn your eyes on me and I will not be there.A cloud thins out and it is gone. Whoever goes down into does not come back up.He never comes home again. His own place stops recognizing his face.So I am not keeping my mouth shut. I will speak while my spirit is in a vise. I will complain out of a bitter .Am I ? Am I in it, that you post a guard around me?When I say, my bed will comfort me, my couch will carry some of this off me —you split me open with dreams and terrify me with .I would rather be choked to death. I would take the grave over this rack of bones.I am done. I don’t want to live forever. Leave me alone — my days are .? That you fix your whole attention on him?That you come to inspect him every morning and test him every minute of the day?How long before you look somewhere else? Will you not let go of me long enough to swallow?Suppose I did . What did that do to you, ? Why have you set me up as your target? Why have I become ?Why not just lift my off me and carry my guilt away? Because soon I will lie down in the dust. You will , and I will not be there.