²⁰ Are not my days few? Cease then, and put from me, And I brighten up a little,

¹ Man, born of woman! Of few days, and full of trouble!

¹³ Look from me, and I brighten up before I go and am not!

⁶ My days swifter than a weaving machine, And they are consumed without hope.

⁷ Remember Thou that my life `is' a breath, Mine eye turneth not back to see good.

¹⁶ I have wasted away -- not to the age do I live. Cease from me, for my days `are' vanity.

¹⁷ What `is' man that Thou dost magnify him? And that Thou settest unto him Thy heart?

¹⁸ And inspectest him in the mornings, In the evenings dost try him?

¹⁹ How long dost Thou not look from me? Thou dost not desist till I swallow my spittle.

²⁰ I have sinned, what do I to Thee, O watcher of man? Why hast Thou set me for a mark to Thee, And I am for a burden to myself -- and what?

²¹ Thou dost not take away my transgression, And cause to pass away mine iniquity, Because now, for dust I lie down: And Thou hast sought me -- and I am not!

⁹ (For of yesterday we `are', and we know not, For a shadow `are' our days on earth.)

²⁵ My days have been swifter than a runner, They have fled, they have not seen good,

²⁶ They have passed on with ships of reed, As an eagle darteth on food.

²¹ Thy hand put far off from me, And Thy terror let not terrify me.

⁵ Lo, handbreadths Thou hast made my days, And mine age `is' as nothing before Thee, Only, all vanity `is' every man set up. Selah.

¹⁵ Mortal man! as grass `are' his days, As a flower of the field so he flourisheth;

¹⁶ For a wind hath passed over it, and it is not, And its place doth not discern it any more.