Chapter 17

Broken my will to live, shortened my days, the grave my only prospect;

my eye lingers on sights of bitterness, never through my fault!

Lord, wouldst thou but vindicate me, and set me right with thee! I care not who else is for or against me.

For these, at least, I care not; thou hast robbed their hearts of all discernment, and they shall have no cause for boasting.

Small thanks a man has for counting out the spoils, while his children go hungry!

A public by-word God has made me, a warning in all men’s sight,

my eyes grown dim, my whole frame wasted away, in my resentment.

Here is sore bewilderment for honest hearts; angrily do innocent men complain, to see knaves prosper,

will the just be true to their resolve any longer? Will they be encouraged to keep their hands clean?

Nay, sirs, return to the charge as often as you will; I do not look to find a wise man among you.

Swift pass my days, my mind distracted with whirling thoughts,

that make night into day for me, as through the hours of darkness I await the dawn.

Waiting for what? The grave is my destined home; among the shadows I must make my bed at last;

only from corruption I claim a father’s welcome, mother’s and sister’s greeting the worms shall offer me;

what hope is this? Wait I patiently or impatiently, who cares?

Into the deep pit I must go down, all of me; even there, in the dust, shall I find rest?