I will extol you, O Self, for you have drawn me up
until the next tragedy overcomes me.
O Self, my hope, I looked to you in trouble,
but you could not heal me.
O Self, you cannot bring up my soul from Sheol;
you cannot restore me from the pit.
I crave praise for myself,
hungering after a mighty name.
Glory lasts but a moment,
and anguish for a lifetime.
Joy tarries for the night,
and weeping comes with the morning.
As for me, I said in my fleeting success,
“It will never be enough.”
By your power, O Self,
I accomplish enough to pretend;
but the facade always ends;
I am dismayed.
But, Self, there is none
to whom I can cry for mercy:
“There is no profit in my death,
and I will go down to the pit.
Praiseless dust I become,
because praiseless dust I already am.
There is no mercy.
There is no help.”
And so, dancing will become mourning;
my gladness will be loosed
and I shall be clothed in sackcloth,
for my glory will be silent.
Closed with my eyes in death.