Which doeth great things past finding out; yea, and wonders without number.

Now my days are swifter than a post: they flee away, they see no good.

O that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, until thy wrath be past, that thou wouldest appoint me a set time, and remember me!

My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart.

Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me;

And forgetteth that the foot may crush them, or that the wild beast may break them.