Job 30

But now they mock me,

   Those lesser than I in days,

Whose fathers I disdained,

   To set with the dogs of my flock,

For I thought,

   What can I gain from the strength of their hands,

      From men whose vigor is spent?

For dearth and starvation, bereft,

   Fleeing to parched desert,

      To desolation and Desolateness.

They pluck saltwort, the leaves of bushes,

   Juniper roots for their food.

Driven from the community,

   Shouted after as if thieves.

They squat in the gullies of wadies,

   In the caves of earth, among the rocks,

Among the bushes they bray,

   Huddled together under the nettles (briers),

A vile, parentless brood,

   Lower than dirt,

But now I am their mockery,

   I am a byword among them,

They abhor me, keep distant from me,

   Do not hesitate to spit at the sight of me,

Now that God has loosed my bowstring and humbled me,

   They have cast off restraint before me,

Against my right hand the youth rise up,

   They push against my foot,

      Raising up against me the ways of their destruction,

They mar my path,

   They promote my calamity,

      None restrains them,

As through a widening breach they advance,

   Amid the crash, they roll on,

Terrors are turned loose upon me,

   My dignity is driven off as by the wind,

      My provenance passing like a cloud,

And now my soul pours itself out,

   Days of affliction have taken hold of me,

By night my bones are pierced within me,

   The muscles knowing no rest.

With great power He seizes me like clothing,

   He bonds me as the collar of a tonic,

He conceived me as clay,

   I have come to be like dust ad ashes,

I cry unto You, You do not answer,

   I remain silent, You disregard me,

You have become cruel to me,

   With the might of Your hand You spurn me,

You bear me up and mount me on a wind,

   Tossed about in a roaring storm.

For I know that You will return me to death,

   The place appointed for all the living,

Yet I always believed,

   Surely one does not stretch out a hand against the afflicted,

      When in calamity they cry out.

Have I not wept for the unfortunate,

   Was I not grieved for the poor?

For I hoped for good, yet evil came,

   I expected light, then came darkness,

My insides churn knowing no rest,

   Days of affliction come to meet me,

I go about darkened, but not by the sun,

   I stand before those assembled and cry out,

A brother I have become to (howling) jackals,

   A companion to (hissing) ostriches,

My skin grows black upon me,

   My bones burn with heat,

My lyre is given over to mourning,

   My flute to the sound of weeping.

 

Job 272