¹⁰ Mortals are a mere breath,
    the sons of man but an illusion;^(A)
On a balance they rise;^[a]
    together they weigh nothing.

⁹ Our life ebbs away under your wrath;^(A)
    our years end like a sigh.
¹⁰ Seventy is the sum of our years,
    or eighty, if we are strong;
Most of them are toil and sorrow;
    they pass quickly, and we are gone.

^4 [a]Man is but a breath,
    his days are like a passing shadow.^(A)

⁶ My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle;
    they come to an end without hope.