Many things I have seen under the Sun All is vanity, a chasing after the wind, a chasing after nothing There is a time for all things under heaven A time for birth and for death A time to speak and to be still I scrape myself with the dried earth The shards of clay from my broken dreams My skin festers with boils As I sit in silence, I rip open my clothes and uncover my heart See what's down inside Of scars and soil we are made And in our suffering we claim, an innocence alien to all of man And what have we to boast, we are tragic at most An object of wrath but his mercy remains Of scars and soil we are made The fire will cleanse all our pain Of scars and soil we are made Of pain and toil is our claim (Then job opened his mouth, and he cursed the day of his birth) Why should not the day perish on which I was born And the night which said a boy is conceived May that day be darkness, do not let the light shine upon it Let the darkness and the black gloom claim it Let a cloud settle on it Let the blackness of the day terrify it, as for that night Let the blackness seize it Let it not come among the days of the year Let it not come into the months Behold! Let that night be barren Let no joyful shout enter it Let those who curse, curse it