My days, are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and they are spent, without hope.
What is my strength, that I should hope? Or what mine end, that I should prolong my desire?
Lo! he may slay me, yet , for him, will I wait, - Nevertheless, my ways - unto his face, will I show to be right:
Thou hast snatched them away, A sleep, do they become, In the morning, they are like grass that shooteth up,
As for man, like grass, are his days, Like the blossom of the field, so, doth he blossom;
By his own wickedness, shall the lawless man, be thrust down, but the righteous, seeketh refuge in his integrity.
My dwelling, hath been broken up. And is stripped from me, like a shepherds tent, - I have roiled up - as a weaver - my life From the loom, doth he cut me off, From day until night, I said - Thou wilt finish me.
A voice saying Cry! And one said - What should I cry? All flesh, is grass, And, all the grace thereof, like the flower of the field:
Withhold thy foot from being unshod, And thy throat from thirst! But thou saidst Hopeless! No! for I love foreigners and after them, will I go.
That ye were, in that season, separate from Christ, alienated from the citizenship of Israel, and strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope, and godless in the world;
For the sun hath sprung up, with it scorching heat, and hath withered the grass, and, the flower thereof, hath fallen out, and, the beauty of the face thereof, hath perished, - so, also the rich, in his goings, shall languish.
Men who are not versed in the morrow - of what sort your life will be ; for ye are, a vapour - for a little, appearing, then, just disappearing!
Wherefore, girding up the loins of your mind, keeping sober, perseveringly direct your hope unto the favour, being borne along to you, in the revealing of Jesus Christ: