Job 7

1Isn't there an appointed time for mortal man upon earth? Aren't his days like the days of a hireling?

2Like a servant panting for shade, like a hireling waiting for his wages.

3So I have inherited months of futility, and nights of toil are appointed to me.

4When I lie down, I say, "When will I rise, and the night pass?" Tossings to and fro fill me until dawn.

5My flesh crawls with worms and clods of dust; my skin rots and grows loathsome.

6My days pass faster than a weaver's shuttle and end without hope.

7Remember that my life is breath; my eye will not return to see good.

8The eye that sees me will not look upon me again; your eyes are on me, but I am no more.

9As the cloud consumes and passes away, so he who descends to Sheol will not ascend.

10He will not return again to his house, nor will his place know him again.

11Therefore I will not hold back my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit, and complain in the bitterness of my soul.

12Am I a sea, or a sea monster, that you set a guard over me?

13When I say, "My bed will comfort me, my couch will bear my complaint."

14you frighten me with dreams and terrify me through visions.

15My soul chooses strangling, death rather than my bones.

16I abhor it; I will live no longer. Cease from me, for my days are vapor.

17What is a mortal that you exalt him, that you set your heart on him?

18you visit him every morning and examine him every moment?

19How long will you not turn your gaze from me, nor grant me respite until I swallow my spittle?

20I have sinned—what shall I do to you, O guardian of humanity? Why have you made me your target, so that I am a burden to myself?

21Why do you not bear my transgression and pass over my iniquity? For now I will lie down to the dust; you will seek me early, but I will not be.