The words of the preacher, keeping his sanity.
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.
What prophet's man's labor under the sun.
One generation passes, then another one comes.
The sun comes up, the wind it blows,
The rivers run down, and around it goes.
Is there anything new that's never been done?
No nothing is different, under the sun.
I gave my heart to search out wisdom, but it only vexed my spirit.
I amassed a fortune to find more meaning, but wealth didn't get me near it.
I even tried folly, I withheld from my heart, nothing that I should desire.
In the end the wise die, just like the fool, and his works are burned in the fire.
Yet to everything there is a season. A time to every purpose under heaven.
In all vanity there must be a reason. In all life a little leaven.
A time to be born. A time to die.
A time to laugh. A time to cry.
A time to plant. A time to kill.
A time to break down. A time to heal.
A time to gather and cast away stone.
A time to embrace and to be alone.
A time to love and a time to hate.
For war and peace before it's too late.