Answering again did Job his wrongs declare,
And plead to hearts which still refus'd to spare.
How long to vex my soul, and with hard words to break
The heart of him who was your friend, thus harshly will ye speak?
These ten times on my head have ye reproaches brought,
And causelessly and shamelessly have to estrange me sought.
And if it be that I have err'd, on me doth rest the blame,
Though thus against me ye do rise, and thus my truth defame.
Know ye that God himself my strength hath overthrown,
Hath compass'd me as with his net, ensnar'd and cast me down.
Behold, I raise my voice unheard, though I of wrong complain,
For judgment I do cry aloud, and for redress in vain.
I cannot pass,—my way is clos'd, and fenc'd on every side—
And darkness he hath spread around, my pathway all to hide,
Of glory stripp'd me, and remov'd from off my head the crown;
On every hand by Him destroy'd, I perish and am gone.
Kindled against me is his wrath;—He counteth me His foe;
Mine hope is as a tree uptorn, that never more may grow.
Against me do His troops arise, and gather in array,—
Encamp my Tabernacle round, and close besiege my way.
Estranged mine acquaintance are,—my Brethren far remov'd—
My kindred have forsaken me, and all whom I have lov'd.
To those who dwell within my house, an alien I am grown,
And counted in my maidens' sight, a stranger and unknown.
Unto my servant when I call, no answer can I gain,—
Though I entreat him with my mouth, I cry to him in vain.
My breath e'en to my wife is strange;—my grief she doth not heed,—
Though by my children's memory, and for their sake, I plead.
Yea, by young children am I scorn'd—before them when I rise,
Against me speak they scoffingly, and for my woes despise,
Abhorr'd by my familiar friends, forgotten and apart,
Those ev'n have turn'd against me now, who dwelt within my heart.
My flesh is wasted, and my bones unto the skin do cleave;—
The covering of my teeth is all my misery doth leave.
Have pity on me, oh my friends! have pity on my woe—
The hand of God hath touched me, and will ye smite me too?
With what doth persecute my flesh, are ye not satisfied,
That more than God ye would inflict, and e'en my soul deride?
Oh! that my words were written now—oh! that they all were trac'd
Upon a scroll, in characters that could not be effac'd!
On leaden tablets graven deep, and with an iron pen,
Ensculptur'd in the living rock, forever to remain.—
I know that my Redeemer liveth, and in the latter days,
I know that He on earth shall stand, and vindicate His ways;
And though my body waste away, and worms my skin corrode,
Yet in my flesh, and for myself, I shall behold my God,—
Whom then mine eyes shall look upon, not in another's guise,
Though now my reins within me faint, until that day arise.
And ye shall say, when rooted firm the Truth is in me found,
Why did we persecute the Just, and with reproaches wound?
Then fear the sword that wrath will bring in punishment to smite,
That judgment ye may know doth wait, the sinner to requite.