My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope.

O remember that my life is wind: mine eye shall no more see good.

I loathe it; I would not live alway: let me alone; for my days are vanity.

(For we are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because our days upon earth are a shadow:)

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

They are passed away as the swift ships: as the eagle that hasteth to the prey.

Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.

Behold, thou hast made my days as an handbreadth; and mine age is as nothing before thee: verily every man at his best state is altogether vanity. Selah.

As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.

For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.

What is man, that thou shouldest magnify him? and that thou shouldest set thine heart upon him?

How long wilt thou not depart from me, nor let me alone till I swallow down my spittle?

And why dost thou not pardon my transgression, and take away mine iniquity? for now shall I sleep in the dust; and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.

Withdraw thine hand far from me: and let not thy dread make me afraid.

O spare me, that I may recover strength, before I go hence, and be no more.