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Job's complaint of life. together to come in to bemoan him, and to comfort him; and they lift up their eyes from afar and have not discerned him, and they lift up their voice and weep, and rend each his robe, and sprinkle dust on their heads—heavenward.

And they sit with him on the earth seven days and seven nights, and there is none speaking unto him a word when they have seen that the pain hath been very great.

III. AFTER this hath Job opened his mouth, and revileth his day.

And Job answereth and saith:—

Let the day perish in which I am born,

And the night that hath said:

'A man-child hath been conceived.'

That day—let it be darkness,

Let not God require it from above,

Nor let light shine upon it.

Let darkness and death-shade redeem it,

Let a cloud tabernacle upon it,

Let them terrify it as the most bitter of days.

That night—let thick darkness take it,

Let it not be united to days of the year,

Into the number of months let it not come.

Lo! that night—let it be gloomy,

Let no singing come into it.

Let the cursers of day mark it,

Who are ready to wake up leviathan.

Let the stars of its twilight be dark,

Let it wait for light, and there is none,

And let it not look on the eyelids of the dawn.

Because it hath not shut the doors

Of the womb that was mine!

And hide misery from mine eyes.

Why from the womb do I not die?

From the belly I have come forth and gasp!

Wherefore have knees been before me?

And what are breasts, that I suck?

For now, I have lain down, and am quiet,

I have slept—then there is rest to me,

With kings and counsellors of earth,

These building wastes for themselves.

Or with princes—they have gold,

They are filling their houses with silver.

(Or as a hidden abortion I am not,

As infants—they have not seen light.)

There the wicked have ceased troubling,

And there rest do the wearied in power.

Together prisoners have been at ease,

They have not heard the voice of an exactor,

Small and great are there the same.

And a servant is free from his lord.

Why giveth He to the miserable light,

And life to the bitter in soul?

Who are waiting for death, and it is not,

And they seek it above hid treasures.

Who are glad—unto joy,

They rejoice when they find a grave.

To a man whose way hath been hidden,

And whom God doth shut up?

For before my food, my sighing cometh,

And poured out as waters are my roarings.

For a fear I feared and it meeteth me,

And what I was afraid of doth come to me.

I was not safe—nor was I quiet—

Nor was I at rest—and trouble cometh!

IV. AND Eliphaz the Temanite answereth and saith: —

Hath one tried a word with thee?—

Thou art weary!

And to keep in words who is able?

Lo, thou hast instructed many,

And feeble hands thou makest strong.

The stumbling one do thy words raise up,

And bowing knees thou dost strengthen.

But now, it cometh in unto thee,

And thou art weary;

It striketh unto thee, and thou art troubled.

Is not thy reverence thy confidence?

Thy hope—the perfection of thy ways?

Remember, I pray thee,

Who, being innocent, hath perished?

And where have the upright been cut off?

As I have seen—ploughers of iniquity,

And sowers of misery, reap it!

From the breath of God they perish,

And from the spirit of His anger consumed.

The roaring of a lion,

And the voice of a fierce lion,

And teeth of young lions have been broken.

An old lion is perishing without prey,

And the whelps of the lioness do separate.

And unto me a thing is secretly brought,

And receive doth mine ear a little of it.

In thoughts from visions of the night,

In the falling of deep sleep on men,

Fear hath met me, and trembling,

And the multitude of my bones caused to fear.

And a spirit before my face doth pass,

Stand up doth the hair of my flesh;

It standeth, and I discern not its aspect,

A similitude is over-against mine eyes,

Silence! and a voice I hear:

'Is mortal man than God more righteous?

Than his Maker is a man cleaner?

Lo, in His servants He putteth no credence,

Nor in His messengers setteth praise.'

Also—the inhabitants of houses of clay,

(Whose foundation is in the dust,

They bruise them before a moth.)

From morning to evening are beaten down,

Without any regarding, for ever they perish.

Hath not their excellency been removed with them?

They die, and not in wisdom!

V. PRAY, call, is there any to answer thee?

And unto which of the holy ones dost thou turn?

For provocation slayeth the perverse,

And envy putteth to death the simple,

I—I have seen the perverse taking root,

And I mark his habitation straightway,

Far are his sons from safety,

And they are bruised in the gate,

And there is no deliverer.

Whose harvest the hungry doth eat,

And even from the thorns taketh it,

And the designing swallowed their wealth.

For sorrow cometh not forth from the dust,

Nor from the ground springeth up misery.

For man to misery is born,

And the sparks go high to fly.

Yet I—I inquire for God,

And for God I give my word,

Doing great things, and there is no searching.

Wonderful, till there is no numbering.

Who is giving rain on the face of the land,

And is sending waters on the out-places.

To set the low on a high place,

And the mourners have been high in safety. 338