My soul loathes my own life; I will let my complaint have free course in me; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul.

I will say to God, Do not account me wicked; Make known to me why You contend with me.

Does it seem good to You to oppress, To despise the toil of Your hands And shine upon the counsel of the wicked?

Do You have eyes of flesh? Or do You see as a man sees?

Are Your days like the days of a man, Or Your years like the days of a mighty man,

That You would seek out my iniquity And search for my sin,

Even though You know that I am not wicked And that there is none who can deliver out of Your hand?

Your hands have shaped me and made me altogether, Yet You destroy me.

Remember now that You have made me like clay; And will You return me to the dust?

Have You not poured me out like milk And curdled me like cheese?

You have clothed me with skin and flesh And woven me together with bones and sinews.

You have granted me life and lovingkindness, And Your visitation has preserved my spirit.

But You have hidden these things in Your heart; I know that this is with You:

If I sin, You mark me, And You do not acquit me of my iniquity;

If I am wicked, woe unto me; If I am righteous, I cannot lift up my head, Being filled with dishonor and looking on my affliction.

And if my head should be lifted up, You would hunt me down like a lion, And You would again demonstrate wonders on me.

You renew Your witnesses against me And increase Your anger against me; Attacking waves and a host are against me.

And why have You brought me out of the womb? I should have died that no eye had seen me;

I should have been as though I had not been; I should have been carried from birth to the grave.

Are not my days few? Cease then, And let me alone, that I may be somewhat revived,

Before I go, and never return, To the land of darkness and the shadow of death,

The land of gloom like deep darkness, The shadow of death without order, Which shines like deep darkness.