On Knowing One's Place

By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread,
till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken;
for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.

For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace.

Remember that my life is a breath

For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing;
my strength fails because of my iniquity, and my bones waste away.

Man who is born of a woman is few of days and full of trouble.
He comes out like a flower and withers; he flees like a shadow and continues not.

He remembered that they were but flesh, a wind that passes and comes not again.

O LORD, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days;
let me know how fleeting I am!

For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.