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Job 14
1 Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.
2 He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.
3 And dost thou open thine eyes upon such an one, and bringest me into judgment with thee?
4 Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? not one.
5 Seeing his days are determined, the number of his months are with thee, thou hast appointed his bounds that he cannot pass;
6 Turn from him, that he may rest, till he shall accomplish, as an hireling, his day.
7 For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.
8 Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground;
9 Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.
10 But man dieth, and wasteth away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?
11 As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up:
12 So man lieth down, and riseth not: till the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep.
13 O that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, until thy wrath be past, that thou wouldest appoint me a set time, and remember me!
14 If a man die, shall he live again? all the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.
15 Thou shalt call, and I will answer thee: thou wilt have a desire to the work of thine hands.
(8,6,8,6)
Few are thy days, and full of woe,
O man, of woman born!
Thy doom is written, ‘Dust thou art,
and shalt to dust return.’
Behold the emblem of thy state
in flow’rs that bloom and die,
Or in the shadow’s fleeting form,
that mocks the gazer’s eye.
Guilty and frail, how shalt thou stand
before thy sov’reign Lord?
Can troubled and polluted springs
a hallowed stream afford?
Determined are the days that fly
successive o’er thy head;
The numbered hour is on the wing
that lays thee with the dead.
Great God! afflict not in thy wrath
the short allotted span
That bounds the few and weary days
of pilgrimage to man.
All nature dies, and lives again:
the flow’r that paints the field,
The trees that crown the mountain’s brow,
and boughs and blossoms yield,
Resign the honours of their form
at Winter’s stormy blast,
And leave the naked leafless plain
a desolated waste.
Yet soon reviving plants and flow’rs
anew shall deck the plain;
The woods shall hear the voice of Spring,
and flourish green again.
But man forsakes this earthly scene,
ah! never to return:
Shall any foll’wing spring revive
the ashes of the urn?
The mighty flood that rolls along
its torrents to the main,
Can ne’er recall its waters lost
from that abyss again.
So days, and years, and ages past,
descending down to night,
Can henceforth never more return
back to the gates of light;
And man, when laid in lonesome grave,
shall sleep in Death’s dark gloom,
Until th’ eternal morning wake
the slumbers of the tomb,
O may the grave become to me
the bed of peaceful rest,
Whence I shall gladly rise at length,
and mingle with the blest!
Cheered by this hope, with patient mind,
I’ll wait Heav’n’s high decree,
Till the appointed period come,
when death shall set me free.
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