My body is clothed with worms and dirty scabs; my skin is broken and festering.

If I cry to corruption, ‘You are my father,’ and to the worm, ‘My Mother,’ or ‘My sister,’

Together they lie down in the dust, and worms cover over them both.

how much less a mortal man, who is but a maggot – a son of man, who is only a worm!”

The womb forgets him, the worm feasts on him, no longer will he be remembered. Like a tree, wickedness will be broken down.