Jobs Life Seems Futile
Is not man forced to labor on earth,
And are not
his days like the days of a hired man?
As a slave who pants for the shade,
And as a hired man who eagerly waits for his wages,
So am I allotted months of vanity,
And nights of trouble are appointed me.
When I lie down I say,
When shall I arise?
But the night continues,
And I am continually tossing until dawn.
My flesh is clothed with worms and a crust of dirt,
My skin hardens and runs.
My days are swifter than a weavers shuttle,
And come to an end without hope.
Remember that my life is but
My eye will not again see good.
The eye of him who sees me will behold me no longer;
Your eyes will be
on me, but I will not be.
When a cloud vanishes, it is gone,
So he who goes down to Sheol does not come up.
He will not return again to his house,
Nor will his place know him anymore.
Therefore I will not restrain my mouth;
I will speak in the anguish of my spirit,
I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
Am I the sea, or the sea monster,
That You set a guard over me?
If I say, My bed will comfort me,
My couch will ease my complaint,
Then You frighten me with dreams
And terrify me by visions;
So that my soul would choose suffocation,
Death rather than my pains.
I waste away; I will not live forever.
Leave me alone, for my days are but
What is man that You magnify him,
And that You are concerned about him,
That You examine him every morning
And try him every moment?
Will You never turn Your gaze away from me,
Nor let me alone until I swallow my spittle?
Have I sinned? What have I done to You,
O watcher of men?
Why have You set me as Your target,
So that I am a burden to myself?
Why then do You not pardon my transgression
And take away my iniquity?
For now I will lie down in the dust;
And You will seek me, but I will not be.