1But now they that are younger than I have me in derision,
2Yea, the strength of their hands, whereto should it profit me?
3They are gaunt with want and famine;
4They pluck salt-wort by the bushes;
5They are driven forth from the midst of men;
6So that they dwell in frightful valleys,
7Among the bushes they bray;
8They are children of fools, yea, children of base men;
9And now I am become their song,
10They abhor me, they stand aloof from me,
11For he hath loosed his cord, and afflicted me;
12Upon my right hand rise the rabble;
13They mar my path,
14As through a wide breach they come:
15Terrors are turned upon me;
16And now my soul is poured out within me;
17In the night season my bones are pierced in me,
18By God’s great force is my garment disfigured;
19He hath cast me into the mire,
20I cry unto thee, and thou dost not answer me:
21Thou art turned to be cruel to me;
22Thou liftest me up to the wind, thou causest me to ride upon it;
23For I know that thou wilt bring me to death,
24Howbeit doth not one stretch out the hand in his fall?
25Did not I weep for him that was in trouble?
26When I looked for good, then evil came;
27My heart is troubled, and resteth not;
28I go mourning without the sun:
29I am a brother to jackals,
30My skin is black, and falleth from me,
31Therefore is my harp turned to mourning,