Job.
Chapter 7.
“Isn't life for human beings like serving a sentence of hard labor? Don't their days pass like those of a hired laborer? 
Like some slave longing for a bit of shade, like a hired hand anxiously waiting for pay day, 
I've been given months of emptiness and nights of misery. 
When I go to bed I ask, ‘When shall I get up?’ But the night goes on and on, and I toss and turn until dawn. 
My body is covered with maggots and caked in dirt; my skin is cracked, with oozing sores. 
My days pass quicker than a weaver's shuttle and they come to an end without hope. 
Remember that my life is just a breath; I will not see happiness again. 
Those watching me won't see me anymore; your eyes will be looking for me, but I will be gone. 
When a cloud disappears, it's gone, just as anyone who goes down to Sheol does not come back up. 
They will never return home, and the people they knew will forget them. 
So, no, I won't hold my tongue—I will speak in the agony of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul. 
Am I the sea or a sea monster that you have to guard me? 
If I tell myself, ‘I'll feel better if I lie down on my bed,’ or ‘it will help me to lie down on my couch,’ 
then you scare me so much with dreams and terrify me with visions 
that I would rather be strangled—I would rather die than become just a bag of bones. 
I hate my life! I know I won't live long. Leave me alone because my life is just a breath. 
Why are human beings so important to you; why are you so concerned about them 
that you inspect them every morning and test them every moment? Won't you ever stop staring at me? 
Won't you ever leave me alone long enough to catch my breath? 
What have I done wrong? What have I done to you, Watcher of Humanity? Why have you made me your target, so that I'm a burden even to myself? 
If so why don't you pardon my sins, and take away my guilt? Right now I'm going to lie down in the dust, and though you will look for me, I will be gone.” 
