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Time races on; cleansing seems useless
"Now my days are swifter than a runner. They flee away, they see no good,
They have passed away as the swift ships, As the eagle that swoops on the prey.
If I say, ‘I will forget my complaint, I will put off my sad face, and cheer up;’
I am afraid of all my sorrows, I know that you will not hold me innocent.
I shall be condemned; Why then do I labor in vain?
If I wash myself with snow, And cleanse my hands with lye,
Yet you will plunge me in the ditch. My own clothes shall abhor me.