My soul refuses to touch them.
They are as loathsome food to me.
“Oh that I might have my request, that God would grant the thing that I long for, even that it would please God to crush me; that he would let loose his hand, and cut me off!
Let it still be my consolation, yes, let me exult in pain that doesn’t spare, that I have not denied the words of the Holy One.
What is my strength, that I should wait?
What is my end, that I should be patient?
Is my strength the strength of stones?
Or is my flesh of bronze?