Job’s Honor Turned to Contempt
But now they laugh at me — men younger than I in days, whose fathers I would have refused to set with the dogs of my flock.
Even the strength of their hands — what was it to me? Their vigor had perished.
In want and in hunger they are barren, gnawing the dry ground, yesterday waste and desolation;
who pluck saltwort among the bushes, and the root of the broom tree is their bread.
They are driven out from the community; they shout after them as after a thief.
They live in the gullies of the wadis, in holes of the dust and rocks.
Among the bushes they bray; under the nettles they huddle together.
Sons of a fool, and sons without a name, they were whipped out of the land.
And now I have become their song, and I am a byword to them.
They abhor me; they keep far from me; and they do not withhold spit from my face.
Because he has loosed my cord and afflicted me, they have thrown off restraint before me.
On my right a brood rises up; they push away my feet, and build up against me their roads of calamity.
They break up my path; they profit from my ruin; no one helps them.
They come as through a wide breach; under the crash they roll on.
Job’s Prosperity Becomes Calamity
Terrors are turned upon me; my dignity is pursued like the wind, and my deliverance has passed by like a cloud.
And now my soul is poured out upon me; days of affliction have seized me.
By night my bones are pierced from upon me, and my gnawing pains do not lie down.
With great force my clothing is disfigured; it binds me about like the collar of my tunic.
He has cast me into the mire, and I have become like dust and ashes.
I cry for help to you, and you do not answer me; I stand, and you look at me.
You have turned cruel to me; with the might of your hand you bear a grudge against me.
You lift me to the wind, you make me ride it; and you dissolve me in the storm.
For I know you will return me to death, and to the house of meeting for all the living.
Surely no one stretches out a hand against a heap of ruins, if in his disaster he cries out for help.
Did I not weep for the one whose day was hard? Was my soul not grieved for the needy?
For I hoped for good, and evil came; and I waited for light, and gloom came.
My bowels boil and are not silent; days of affliction have met me.
I go about blackened, but not by the sun; I stand up in the assembly and cry for help.
I have become a brother to jackals, and a companion to daughters of the ostrich.
My skin has turned black upon me, and my bones burn from the heat.
And my lyre has turned to mourning, and my pipe to the sound of weeping.