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My eyes grow dim, weakened by this sickness;
    it is taking my strength from me.
Like a worn cloth, my hands are unfolded before You daily, O Eternal One.
10 Are You the miracle-worker for the dead?
    Will they rise from the dark shadows to worship You again?

[pause]

11 Will Your great love be proclaimed in the grave
    or Your faithfulness be remembered in whispers like mists throughout the place of ruin?[a]

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Footnotes

  1. 88:11 Hebrew, Abaddon

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