|"But now they make sport of me, |
men who are younger than I,
whose fathers I would have disdained
to set with the dogs of my flock.
|What could I gain from the strength of their hands, |
men whose vigor is gone?
|Through want and hard hunger |
they gnaw the dry and desolate ground;
|they pick mallow and the leaves of bushes, |
and to warm themselves the roots of the broom.
|They are driven out from among men; |
they shout after them as after a thief.
|In the gullies of the torrents they must dwell, |
in holes of the earth and of the rocks.
|Among the bushes they bray; |
under the nettles they huddle together.
|A senseless, a disreputable brood, |
they have been whipped out of the land.
|"And now I have become their song, |
I am a byword to them.
|They abhor me, they keep aloof from me; |
they do not hesitate to spit at the sight of me.
|Because God has loosed my cord and humbled me, |
they have cast off restraint in my presence.
|On my right hand the rabble rise, |
they drive me forth,
they cast up against me their ways of destruction.
|They break up my path, |
they promote my calamity;
no one restrains them.
|As through a wide breach they come; |
amid the crash they roll on.
|Terrors are turned upon me; |
my honor is pursued as by the wind,
and my prosperity has passed away like a cloud.
|"And now my soul is poured out within me; |
days of affliction have taken hold of me.
|The night racks my bones, |
and the pain that gnaws me takes no rest.
|With violence it seizes my garment; |
it binds me about like the collar of my tunic.
|God has cast me into the mire, |
and I have become like dust and ashes.
|I cry to thee and thou dost not answer me; |
I stand, and thou dost not heed me.
|Thou hast turned cruel to me; |
with the might of thy hand thou dost persecute me.
|Thou liftest me up on the wind, thou makest me ride on it, |
and thou tossest me about in the roar of the storm.
|Yea, I know that thou wilt bring me to death, |
and to the house appointed for all living.
|"Yet does not one in a heap of ruins stretch out his hand, |
and in his disaster cry for help?
|Did not I weep for him whose day was hard? |
Was not my soul grieved for the poor?
|But when I looked for good, evil came; |
and when I waited for light, darkness came.
|My heart is in turmoil, and is never still; |
days of affliction come to meet me.
|I go about blackened, but not by the sun; |
I stand up in the assembly, and cry for help.
|I am a brother of jackals, |
and a companion of ostriches.
|My skin turns black and falls from me, |
and my bones burn with heat.
|My lyre is turned to mourning, |
and my pipe to the voice of those who weep.
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