He hath made me a by-word of the peoples,
And they spit into my face.
My eye is dim by dint of sorrow,
And all my members are as a shadow.
CLVI
At this the upright are appalled,
And the just bridles up against the impious.
But the righteous holds on his way,
And the clean-handed waxeth ever stronger.
CLVII
But as for you all—do ye return,
For I discern not one wise man among you.
My days, my thoughts have passed away;
My heart's desires are cut asunder.
CLVIII
If I still hope, it is for my house—the tomb.
I have made my bed in the darkness.
I have said unto the grave, "My Mother,"
And to the maggot, "Sister mine."
CLIX
And my hope—where is it now?
My bliss—who shall behold it?[224]
They go down to the bars of the pit,
When our rest together is in the dust.