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!
9 That God would please -- and bruise me, Loose His hand and cut me off!
10 And yet it is my comfort, (And I exult in pain -- He doth not spare,) That I have not hidden The sayings of the Holy One.
11 What 'is' my power that I should hope? And what mine end That I should prolong my life?
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