But now they that are younger than I have me in derision, Whose fathers I disdained to set with the dogs of my flock.
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Yea, the strength of their hands, whereto should it profit me? Men in whom ripe age is perished.
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They are gaunt with want and famine; They gnaw the dry ground, in the gloom of wasteness and desolation.
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They pluck salt-wort with wormwood; And the roots of the broom are their food.
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They are driven forth from the midst of men; They cry after them as after a thief.
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In the clefts of the valleys must they dwell, In holes of the earth and of the rocks.
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Among the bushes they bray; Under the nettles they are gathered together.
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They are children of churls, yea, children of ignoble men; They were scourged out of the land.
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And now I am become their song, Yea, I am a byword unto them.
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They abhor me, they flee far from me, And spare not to spit in my face.
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For He hath loosed my cord, and afflicted me, And they have cast off the bridle before me.
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Upon my right hand rise the brood; They entangle my feet, And they cast up against me their ways of destruction.
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They break up my path, They further my calamity, Even men that have no helper.
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As through a wide breach they come; In the midst of the ruin they roll themselves upon me.
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Terrors are turned upon me, They chase mine honour as the wind; And my welfare is passed away as a cloud.
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And now my soul is poured out within me; Days of affliction have taken hold upon me.
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In the night my bones are pierced, and fall from me, And my sinews take no rest.
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By the great force [of my disease] is my garment disfigured; It bindeth me about as the collar of my coat.
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He hath cast me into the mire, And I am become like dust and ashes.
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I cry unto Thee, and Thou dost not answer me; I stand up, and Thou lookest at me. .
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Thou art turned to be cruel to me; With the might of Thy hand Thou hatest me.
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Thou liftest me up to the wind, Thou causest me to ride upon it; And Thou dissolvest my substance.
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For I know that Thou wilt bring me to death, And to the house appointed for all living.
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Surely none shall put forth his hand to a ruinous heap, Neither because of these things shall help come in one’s calamity,
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If I have not wept for him that was in trouble, And if my soul grieved not for the needy.
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Yet, when I looked for good, there came evil; And when I waited for light, there came darkness.
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Mine inwards boil, and rest not; Days of affliction are come upon me.
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I go mourning without the sun; I stand up in the assembly, and cry for help.
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I am become a brother to jackals, And a companion to ostriches.
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My skin is black, and falleth from me, And my bones are burned with heat.
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Therefore is my harp turned to mourning, And my pipe into the voice of them that weep.
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