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Chapter 7
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Isn't each person consigned to forced labor on earth? Are not his days like those of a hired worker?
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Like a slave he longs for shade; like a hired worker he waits for his pay.
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So I have been made to inherit months of futility, and troubled nights have been assigned to me.
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When I lie down I think, "When will I get up?" But the evening drags on endlessly, and I toss and turn until dawn.
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My flesh is clothed with maggots and encrusted with dirt. My skin forms scabs and then oozes.
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My days pass more swiftly than a weaver's shuttle; they come to an end without hope.
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Remember that my life is but a breath. My eye will never again see anything good.
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The eye of anyone who looks on me will no longer see me. Your eyes will look for me, but I will be gone.
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As a cloud fades away and vanishes, so the one who goes down to Sheol will never rise again.
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He will never return to his house; his hometown will no longer remember him.
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Therefore I will not restrain my mouth. I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
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Am I the sea or a sea monster, that you keep me under guard?
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When I say, "My bed will comfort me, and my couch will ease my complaint,"
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then you frighten me with dreams, and terrify me with visions,
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so that I prefer strangling-- death rather than life in this body.
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I give up! I will not live forever. Leave me alone, for my days are a breath.
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What is a mere human, that you think so highly of him and pay so much attention to him?
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You inspect him every morning, and put him to the test every moment.
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Will you ever look away from me, or leave me alone long enough to swallow?
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If I have sinned, what have I done to you, Watcher of humanity? Why have you made me your target, so that I have become a burden to you?
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Why not forgive my sin and pardon my iniquity? For soon I will lie down in the grave. You will eagerly seek me, but I will be gone.