Job

Few be the days that feeble man must breath,
Yet frequent troubles antedate his death:
Gay like a flow'r he comes, which newly grown,
Fades of itself, or is untimely mown:
Like a thin aery shadow does he fly,
Length'ning and short'ning still until he die.
And does Jehovah think on such a one,
Does he behold him from his mighty Throne?
Will he contend with such a worthless thing,
Or dust and ashes into Judgement bring?

Unclean, unclean is man ev'n from the womb,
Unclean he falls into his drowsy tomb.
Surely, he cannot answer God, nor be
Accounted pure, before such purity.