Sighing over his miserable present
But now those who are younger than I
Hold me in derision,
Those whose fathers I disdained
To put with the dogs of my flock.
Indeed, what good is the strength of their hands to me?
Their vigor has perished from them.
Withered up through want and hunger,
They gnaw at the dry ground,
A gloom of waste and desolation.
They pick the mallow upon the bushes,
And the roots of the broom shrub are their food.
They are driven from the company of men;
Men cry after them as after a thief;
So that they must dwell in the most dreadful ravines,
In caves of the earth and in the rocks.
Among the bushes they bray;
Under the nettles they huddle.
Sons of fools, indeed sons of nameless men,
They have been stricken from the land.
And now I have become their song,
And I am a abyword
They abhor me; they stand aloof from me;
And they do not withhold their spit from my face.
For He has loosened 1my
cord and afflicted me;
Therefore they have cast off restraint in my presence.
At my right hand a brood rises up;
They send my feet running
And cast up against me their ways of destruction.
They break up my path;
They promote my calamity,
Though there is no profit to them.
As through a wide breach they come in;
Amid the ruin they roll on.
Terrors are turned upon me;
My honor is pursued as by a wind,
And my prosperity passes away like a acloud
And now my asoul
is poured out within me;
Days of affliction have taken hold of me.
The night rends my bones from me,
And my gnawing pains do not rest.
With great force my garments are distorted;
It binds me like the collar of my coat.
He has cast me into the mire,
And I am like adust
I cry unto You, but You do not answer me;
I stand up, and You stare at me.
You have turned to become cruel to me;
With the might of Your hand You pursue me.
You lift me up into the wind; You make me ride on it;
And You dissolve me in the storm.
For I know that You will bring me into death,
And to the ahouse
appointed for all living.
Nevertheless does not a man put forth his hand when he falls,
Or because of his disaster therefore cry out?
Did I not weep for him who had hard days?
Was my soul not grieved for the needy?
When I expected good, evil came;
And when I waited for light, darkness came.
My inward parts are in turmoil and are not still;
Days of affliction have drawn near to me.
I go about in sunless mourning.
I rise up in the congregation; I cry for help.
I am a brother to jackals
And a companion to ostriches.
My skin is black and falling from me,
And my bones burn with heat.
My lyre has become mourning,
And my pipe, the voice of those who weep.