This is what Hezekiah king of Judah wrote after he’d been sick and then recovered from his sickness:In the very prime of lifeI have to leave.Whatever time I have leftis spent in death’s waiting room.No more glimpses of Godin the land of the living,No more meetings with my neighbors,no more rubbing shoulders with friends.This body I inhabit is taken downand packed away like a camper’s tent.Like a weaver, I’ve rolled up the carpet of my lifeas God cuts me free of the loomAnd at day’s end sweeps up the scraps and pieces.I cry for help until morning.Like a lion, God pummels and pounds me,relentlessly finishing me off.I squawk like a doomed hen,moan like a dove.My eyes ache from looking up for help:“Master, I’m in trouble! Get me out of this!”But what’s the use? God himself gave me the word.He’s done it to me.I can’t sleep—I’m that upset, that troubled.