I am counted among those who go down into the pit. I am like a man who has no help,set apart among the dead, like the slain who lie in the grave, whom you remember no more. They are cut off from your hand.
He will break it as a potter’s vessel is broken, breaking it in pieces without sparing, so that there won’t be found among the broken pieces a piece good enough to take fire from the hearth, or to dip up water out of the cistern.”
Or hasn’t the potter a right over the clay, from the same lump to make one part a vessel for honor, and another for dishonor?What if God, willing to show his wrath and to make his power known, endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction,
I said,“ I won’t see Yah, Yah in the land of the living. I will see man no more with the inhabitants of the world.My dwelling is removed, and is carried away from me like a shepherd’s tent. I have rolled up my life like a weaver. He will cut me off from the loom. From day even to night you will make an end of me.