Rotherham(i)
15 There are turned upon me terrors,––Chased away as with a wind, is mine abundance, and, as a cloud, hath passed away my prosperity.
16 Now, therefore, over myself, my soul poureth itself out, There seize me days of affliction:
17 Night, boreth, my bones, all over me,––and, my sinews, find no rest;
18 Most effectually, is my skin disfigured,––Like the collar of my tunic, it girdeth me about:
19 He hath cast me into the mire, and I have become like dust and ashes.
20 I cry out for help unto thee, and thou dost not answer, I stand still, and thou dost gaze at me;
21 Thou art turned to become a cruel one unto me, With the might of thy hand, thou assailest me;
22 Thou liftest up me to the wind, thou carriest me away, and the storm maketh me faint;
23 For I know that, unto death, thou wilt bring me back, even unto the house of meeting for every one living.
24 Only, against a heap of ruins, will one not thrust a hand! Surely, when one is in calamity––for that very reason, is there an outcry for help.
25 Verily I wept, for him whose lot was hard, Grieved was my soul, for the needy.
26 Surely, for good, I looked, but there came in evil, And I waited for light, but there came in darkness;
27 I boiled within me, and rested not, There confronted me––days of affliction;
28 In gloom, I walked along, without sun, I arose––in the convocation, I cried out for help;
29 A brother, became I to the brutes that howl, and a companion to the birds that screech:
30 My skin, turned black, and peeled off me, and, my bones, burned with heat:
31 Thus is attuned to mourning––my lyre, and my flute, to the noise of them who weep.