1My breathing is growing weaker and the gravediggers are gathering for me. 2Scoffers are my only companions, their harshness haunts my nights. 3So you must go bail for me to yourself, for which of them cares to clap his hand on mine? 4For you have shut their hearts to reason, hence not a hand is lifted. 5Just so is a man who invites his friends to share his property while the eyes of his own childrenlanguish. 6I have become a byword among foreigners, and a creature on whose face to spit, 7since I am nearly blind with grief and my limbs are reduced to a shadow. 8Any honest person is appal ed at the sight, the innocent is indignant at the sinner. 9Anyone upright grows stronger step by step: and anyone whose hands are clean grows ever in vigour! 10Come on then, al of you, back to the attack! I shall not find one wise man among you! 11My days are over, so are my plans, my heart-strings are broken; 12yet they would have me believe that night is day, that light to dispel the darkness is at hand, 13when al I want, in fact, is to dwel in Sheol and in that darkness there to make my bed! 14To the tomb, I cry, 'You are my father!' -- to the worm, 'You are my mother-you, my sister!' 15Where then is my hope? Who can see any happiness for me? 16unless they come down to Sheol with me, all of us sinking into the dust together?
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