Does not man have a term of hard service on earth? And are his days not like the days of a hired hand?

Like a servant who longs for the shade, And like a hired hand who waits for his pay,

So I am made to inherit months of vanity, And nights of trouble are appointed to me.

If I lie down, I say, When will I arise? But the evening is long, And I am full of tossings until the dawn.

My flesh is clothed with worms and dirt clods; My skin crusts and then oozes again.

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle And are spent without hope.

Remember that my life is a breath; My eye will not see good again.

The eye of him who sees me will not look on me; Your eyes will be on me, but I will not be.

The cloud is consumed and goes away: Likewise he who goes down into Sheol does not come up.

He returns no more to his house, Nor does his place know him anymore.

For my part, I also will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the distress of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.

Am I the sea, or a sea serpent, That You must set a watch over me?

When I say, My bed will comfort me, My couch will bear up my complaint;

Then You scare me with dreams And terrify me with visions,

So that my soul would choose strangulation And death rather than my bones.

I loathe life; I would not live forever. Leave me alone, for my days are a mere breath.

What is man that You magnify him, And that You consider him,

And that You visit him every morning, You try him every moment?

How long before You look away from me, Before You abandon me until I swallow my spittle?

If I have sinned, what have I done to You, O Watcher of man? Why have You made me Your target so that I have become a burden to myself?

And why do You not forgive my transgression And take away my iniquity? For now I may lie down in the dust; And You will seek me out, and I will not be.