Is there not unto man decreed
A warfare for his earthly way,
And to his span of life a meed,
Ev'n as the hireling's measur'd day?
And can I fail to watch and sigh
Till my deliverance draweth nigh?
The wearied Bondsman, earnestly
Desires the evening's closing hour,
And marks the shadows silently
Steal on, and lengthen more and more,
And joyful hails the signal blest
Of wages earn'd, and coming rest.
But all my months are vanity,
And weary nights to me are given,
When tossing on my bed I lie,
And ask for dawn while yet 'tis even.
Foul worms and dust are made my dress,
And all my skin is loathsomeness.
More swiftly than the weaver's art
Can throw his shuttle through the loom,
My days arise and so depart,
And still they hopelessly consume.
No more of good mine eye shall find
In life as empty as the wind.
He that hath seen, shall cease to see
My mortal form,—mine earthly frame;
I, as a thing of nought, shall be
Lost in the dust from whence I came.
One moment thou hast seen me here—
Thine eyes behold—I disappear!
As vanisheth the cloud away,
And in the breeze doth swift consume,
He whom the grave hath made its prey,
From its dark depths no more shall come.
He to his house returneth never,
And from his place hath pass'd forever.
And therefore do I still complain,
And in my spirit's anguish speak;
Nor shall my mouth its words refrain,
But still my woe shall utterance seek.
My soul its bitterness shall pour,
Nor cease to grieve till life be o'er.
Am I then like the raging sea,
Or dreaded monster of the deep,
That all around Thou boundest me,
And constant watch dost o'er me keep?
I would that death might end the strife,
And strangling rather choose than life.
When on my couch I seek to rest,
And hope for ease and comfort there;
With terror is my sleep possest,
And fearful dreams my spirit scare.
Such life I loathe—oh let me die!
For all my days are vanity.
What is the worth of man, that Thou
Should'st on him turn Almighty Power,
To magnify, or lay him low,
And thus pursue from hour to hour?
That Thou should'st every moment try,
Nor night nor morning, pass him by?
How long, then, wilt Thou not depart,
Nor ev'n to swallow leave me free?
Preserver of mankind Thou art,—
Why am I made a mark for Thee?
So that myself, and my despair,
Are burdens more than I can bear.
If I have sinn'd, yet pardon Thou,
And blot out mine iniquity—
For unto Thee what can I do?
Since in the dust I soon must lie;
When morning dawns o'er land and sea,
And Thou dost seek—I shall not be.