Post by 13rf4E…7Zkb

Truly God has made me low, even to the earth, and I have become like dust.

The flesh is gone from my bones, and they give me no rest; there is no end to my pains.

They make noises like asses among the brushwood; they get together under the thorns.

They are wasted for need of food, biting the dry earth; their only hope of life is in the waste land.

My feelings are strongly moved, and give me no rest; days of trouble have overtaken me.

Lifting me up, you make me go on the wings of the wind; I am broken up by the storm.

For I am certain that you will send me back to death, and to the meeting-place ordered for all living.

I have become a brother to the jackals, and go about in the company of ostriches.

The lines of his men of war put themselves in order, and make high their ways of destruction against me:

For I was looking for good, and evil came; I was waiting for light, and it became dark.

With great force he takes a grip of my clothing, pulling me by the neck of my coat.

They are sent out from among their townsmen, men are crying after them as thieves

They are pulling off the salt leaves from the brushwood, and making a meal of roots.

I am disgusting to them; they keep away from me, and put marks of shame on me.

Fears have come on me; my hope is gone like the wind, and my well-being like a cloud.

They are sons of shame, and of men without a name, who have been forced out of the land.

For he has made loose the cord of my bow, and put me to shame; he has sent down my flag to the earth before me.

Have I not been weeping for the crushed? and was not my soul sad for him who was in need?

They have made waste my roads, with a view to my destruction; his bowmen come round about me;

And now I have become their song, and I am a word of shame to them.

Has not my hand been stretched out in help to the poor? have I not been a saviour to him in his trouble?

Of what use is the strength of their hands to me? all force is gone from them.

As through a wide broken place in the wall they come on, I am overturned by the shock of their attack.

But now those who are younger than I make sport of me; those whose fathers I would not have put with the dogs of my flocks.

But now my soul is turned to water in me, days of trouble overtake me:

You give no answer to my cry, and take no note of my prayer.

You have become cruel to me; the strength of your hand is hard on me.

I go about in dark clothing, uncomforted; I get up in the public place, crying out for help.

They have to get a resting-place in the hollows of the valleys, in holes of the earth and rocks.

My skin is black and dropping off me; and my bones are burning with the heat of my disease.

And my music has been turned to sorrow, and the sound of my pipe into the noise of weeping.