9 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?
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]
- 88:11 Hebrew, Abaddon