My flesh is clothed with worms and a crust of dirt;
My skin hardens and runs.
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle.
And come to an end without hope.
Remember that my life is but breath, My eye will not again see good.
The eye of him who sees me will behold me no more;
Thine eyes will be on me, but I will not be.
When a cloud vanishes, it is gone.
So he who goes down to Sheol does not come up.
He will not return again to his house, Nor will his place know him anymore.