In the very prime of life
    I have to leave.
Whatever time I have left
    is spent in death’s waiting room.
No more glimpses of God
    in the land of the living,
No more meetings with my neighbors,
    no more rubbing shoulders with friends.
This body I inhabit is taken down
    and packed away like a camper’s tent.
Like a weaver, I’ve rolled up the carpet of my life
    as God cuts me free of the loom
And at day’s end sweeps up the scraps and pieces.
    I cry for help until morning.
Like a lion, God pummels and pounds me,
    relentlessly finishing me off.
I squawk like a doomed hen,
    moan like a dove.
My eyes ache from looking up for help:
    “Master, I’m in trouble! Get me out of this!”
But what’s the use? God himself gave me the word.
    He’s done it to me.
I can’t sleep—
    I’m that upset, that troubled.