I completed chapter four and reviewed all the notes I had yet to use for a study. I did not find a coherant story, so I am pushing them back to when I get to them individually in sequence. My next steps will be to continue the day by day amalgamation, but I will be adding to that with a sequential review of what I learned verse by verse which is more or less what I started out to do, but with the added benefit of sharing what I find along the way. 

The biggest lesson in this chapter was with verse 6. I am not sure the outcome is either fully understandable nor good poetry, but I like it none the less. Any confidence or hope need to come from faith in God, not faith in self.

Job 4

Then Eliphaz, the Temanite,

replied saying:

If one ventures a word against you,

Would it be too much?

Yet, who could hold back his words now?

 

Behold, you were always the one encouraging others,

Strengthening failing hands,

Your words have upheld the stumbling,

Stabilizing faltering knees,

Yet now that trouble befalls you,

You cannot bear it.

It touches you,

And you are overcome.

Does reverence,

not give confidence?

No hope,

from integrity?

Recall, pray:

Who being innocent, perished?

Where were the upright cutoff?

 

As I see it, those who plow iniquity

And sow trouble,

Reap the same.

By the breath of God, they perish,

By a snort from him, they are consumed.

 

The lion roars, the cub howls,

Yet the teeth of the great lion are broken.

The mighty lion perishes for lack of prey,

The young of the lioness scattered.

 

Word came to me in stealth,

My ear caught an echo of it.

Amid wisps of thought,

Visions of the night,

When slumber drifts down upon mortals,

 

Terror came upon me,

And trembling,

Causing all my bones,

To quake in fear.

A Spirit passed,

before my face,

The hair on my skin,

stood on end

It became still,

I could not discern its appearance,

A form loomed before my eyes,

Silence,

then I heard a voice:

 

Can mortals be righteous before God?

Can humans be pure before their maker?

If God cannot trust His servants,

   If He sees folly even in His angels,

How much more so,

   Those who dwell in clay houses,

      Whose origin is dust,

         Who crumble before the beating of moth wings?

From dawn to dusk,

They are shattered,

Perishing,

Forever,

Unnoticed.

 

Does not their life thread,

break within them,

They die,

devoid of wisdom.