|The life of a man on the earth is a battle, and his days are like the days of a hired hand.
|Just as a servant desires the shade, and just as the hired hand looks forward to the end of his work,
|so also have I had empty months and have counted my burdensome nights.
|If I lie down to sleep, I will say, “When will I rise?” And next I will hope for the evening and will be filled with sorrows even until darkness.
|My flesh is clothed with particles of rottenness and filth; my skin is dried up and tightened.
|My days have passed by more quickly than threads are cut by a weaver, and they have been consumed without any hope.
|Remember that my life is wind, and my eye will not return to see good things.