Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; For the hand of God hath touched me.
I sat not in the assembly of them that make merry, nor rejoiced; I sat alone because of thy hand; for thou hast filled me with indignation.
Why is my pain perpetual, and my wound incurable, which refuseth to be healed? wilt thou indeed be unto me as a deceitful (brook), as waters that fail?
Wherefore came I forth out of the womb to see labor and sorrow, that my days should be consumed with shame?
Behold, the day, behold, it cometh: thy doom is gone forth; the rod hath blossomed, pride hath budded.