Job Laments the Finality of Death
Man, born of woman, is short of days and full of raging.
Like a flower he comes out and withers; and he flees like a shadow and does not stand.
And on such a one you open your eye, and you bring me into judgment with you?
Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? Not one.
If his days are decided, the number of his months is with you; you have made his limits, and he does not pass over.
Look away from him, and let him cease, until he takes pleasure in his day like a hired man.
For there is hope for a tree: if it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its shoot will not cease.
If its root grows old in the earth, and its stump dies in the dust,
at the scent of water it will bud, and put out branches like a young plant.
But a man dies, and lies powerless; a human expires, and where is he?
The waters go from the sea, and a river wastes away and dries up;
so a man lies down and does not rise. Until the heavens are no more they will not awake, and they will not be roused from their sleep.
Oh that you would hide me in Sheol, that you would conceal me until your anger turns back, that you would set me a limit and remember me!
If a man dies, will he live? All the days of my hard service I would wait, until my change comes.
You would call, and I myself would answer you; you would long for the work of your hands.
For then you would count my steps; you would not keep watch over my sin.
My transgression would be sealed up in a bundle, and you would plaster over my iniquity.
But a falling mountain crumbles away, and a rock moves from its place;
waters wear away stones; their torrents wash away the dust of the earth — and the hope of a mortal you destroy.
You overpower him forever, and he goes; you change his face and send him away.
His sons are honored, and he does not know it; and they are brought low, and he does not perceive it of them.
Only his flesh upon him is in pain, and his soul upon him mourns.