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If I have withheld the poor from `their' desire, Or have caused the eyes of the widow to fail,

If like Adam I have covered my transgressions, By hiding mine iniquity in my bosom,

In the night season my bones are pierced in me, And the `pains' that gnaw me take no rest.

Thou liftest me up to the wind, thou causest me to ride `upon it'; And thou dissolvest me in the storm.

I go mourning without the sun: I stand up in the assembly, and cry for help.

My heart is troubled, and resteth not; Days of affliction are come upon me.

They mar my path, They set forward my calamity, `Even' men that have no helper.

Upon my right hand rise the rabble; They thrust aside my feet, And they cast up against me their ways of destruction.

Thou art turned to be cruel to me; With the might of thy hand thou persecutest me.

Terrors are turned upon me; They chase mine honor as the wind; And my welfare is passed away as a cloud.

As through a wide breach they come: In the midst of the ruin they roll themselves `upon me'.

Did not I weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the needy?

I cry unto thee, and thou dost not answer me: I stand up, and thou gazest at me.

For he hath loosed his cord, and afflicted me; And they have cast off the bridle before me.

Howbeit doth not one stretch out the hand in his fall? Or in his calamity therefore cry for help?

And now my soul is poured out within me; Days of affliction have taken hold upon me.

By `God's' great force is my garment disfigured; It bindeth me about as the collar of my coat.

He hath cast me into the mire, And I am become like dust and ashes.

When I looked for good, then evil came; And when I waited for light, there came darkness.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, And to the house appointed for all living.

They abhor me, they stand aloof from me, And spare not to spit in my face.

So that they dwell in frightful valleys, In holes of the earth and of the rocks.

And now I am become their song, Yea, I am a byword unto them.

They pluck salt-wort by the bushes; And the roots of the broom are their food.

Yea, the strength of their hands, whereto should it profit me? Men in whom ripe age is perished.

They are driven forth from the midst `of men'; They cry after them as after a thief;

But now they that are younger than I have me in derision, Whose fathers I disdained to set with the dogs of my flock.

They are gaunt with want and famine; They gnaw the dry ground, in the gloom of wasteness and desolation.

`They are' children of fools, yea, children of base men; They were scourged out of the land.

Among the bushes they bray; Under the nettles they are gathered together.