איוב ל׳Job 30

But now those younger than I deride me,
Those whose fathers I would have disdained to put among my sheep dogs.

Of what use to me is the strength of their hands?
All their vigor is gone.

Wasted from want and starvation,
They flee to a parched land,
To the gloom of desolate wasteland.

They pluck saltwort and wormwood;
The roots of broom are their food.

Driven out from society,
They are cried at like a thief.

They live in the gullies of wadis,
In holes in the ground, and in rocks,

Braying among the bushes,
Huddling among the nettles,

Scoundrels, nobodies,
Stricken from the earth.

Now I am the butt of their gibes;
I have become a byword to them.

They abhor me; they keep their distance from me;
They do not withhold spittle from my face.

Because [God] has disarmed and humbled me,
They have thrown off restraint in my presence.

Mere striplings assail me at my right hand:
They put me to flight;
They build their roads for my ruin.

They tear up my path;
They promote my fall,
Although it does them no good.

They come as through a wide breach;
They roll in like raging billows.

Terror tumbles upon me;
It sweeps away my honor like the wind;
My dignity taken as related to shoaʻ, “noble.” vanishes like a cloud.

So now my life runs out;
Days of misery have taken hold of me.

By night my bones feel gnawed;
My sinews never rest.

With great effort I change clothing;
The neck of my tunic fits my waist.

[God] regarded me as clay,
I have become like dust and ashes.

I cry out to You, but You do not answer me;
I wait, but You do [not] consider me.

You have become cruel to me;
With Your powerful hand You harass me.

You lift me up and mount me on the wind;
You make my courage melt.

I know You will bring me to death,
The house assigned for all the living.

Surely [God] would not strike at a ruin
If, in calamity, one cried out.

Did I not weep for the unfortunate?
Did I not grieve for the needy?

I looked forward to good fortune, but evil came;
I hoped for light, but darkness came.

My bowels are in turmoil without respite;
Days of misery confront me.

I walk about in sunless gloom;
I rise in the assembly and cry out.

I have become a brother to jackals,
A companion to ostriches.

My skin, blackened, is peeling off me;
My bones are charred by the heat.

So my lyre is given over to mourning,
My pipe, to accompany weepers.