My bone sticks to my skin, my flesh is consumed,
And my lips are barely left round my teeth1.
Pity me, pity me after all, you my friends, 
because the hand of the Lord has touched me.
Why do you pursue me like God, 
and are not satisfied with my flesh?
Who could arrange for me that my words were written down?
Who could make them be marked down in a book with an iron stylus2,
And with a leaden chisel as if they were sculpted, graven in the rock?
For I know that my redeemer lives, 
and that he will be raised from the earth at the last day: 
And I will once again be clothed in my skin,
And in my flesh I will see God my saviour.
I will see him myself, 
and my eyes -- no-one else's -- will look upon him: 
and this hope is laid up in my heart.