4 For arrows of the Mighty 'are' with me, Whose poison is drinking up my spirit. Terrors of God array themselves 'for' me!
5 Brayeth a wild ass over tender grass? Loweth an ox over his provender?
6 Eaten is an insipid thing without salt? Is there sense in the drivel of dreams?
7 My soul is refusing to touch! They 'are' as my sickening food.
8 O that my request may come, That God may grant my hope!
Share this page