What my soul refuseth to touch, that is as my loathsome food.

A land of gloom, as darkness itself; of the shadow of death, without any order, where the light is as thick darkness.

It is as the heights of heaven; what wilt thou do? deeper than Sheol; what canst thou know?

The murderer riseth with the light, killeth the afflicted and needy, and in the night is as a thief.

Behold, my belly is as wine which hath no vent; like new flasks, it is ready to burst.