Job

30 But now my juniors are laughing at me,

whose fathers I had rejected for placing with my sheep-dogs.

2 Of what use was even the strength of their hands to me,

men in whom solid vigor was lost,

gaunt with destitution and starvation?

3** Those who gnaw arid downs,

the emesh of blast and blight,

4 Who pluck alkali-sorrel, wormwood leaves,

and have broom-roots for their bread;

5* They are driven out of a community,

they yell at them as they would at a thief.

6 They have to live in the sides of arroyos,

in holes in the ground and between stones.

7 They bray between wormwood bushes,

snuggle together under weeds.

8 Sons of rascals, sons of nobody that can be named,

they are whipped out of the country.

9 —And now I am the butt of their jingles

and have become a byword of theirs.

10 They abhor me, stand far away from me,

do not keep their spit out of my face.

11* For he has undone my bowstring and made me helpless,

and they loosen their reins before me.

12 On the right a horde stand up,

unsettle my footing,

and build their tracks of calamity against me.

13* They tear up my path,

do great work for catastrophe,

have nobody to help them.

14 They come like coming through a broad breach,

roll along under the crash of ruin.

15 Dissolution turns upon me,

my dignity is chased off as if by the wind,

and my hope of succor passes like a cloud.

16 And now I have my life draining out,

days of suffering are gripping me,

17** In the night my bones are being dug away

and my sinews get no repose.

18* My garment takes strong hold,

lies snug on me like the neck of my shirt.

19 He has laid me for clay,

and I am made like earth and ashes.

20** I clamor to you and you do not answer me;

I stand there and you observe me,

21 You turn brutal toward me,

you wreak your grudge on me with the vast strength of your hand.

22 You pick me up into the air, ride me on the wind,

let storm toss me.

23 For I know you will bring me back to death,

to the rendezvous of everything alive.

24* Only he does not lay hands on a heap of ruin;

or by his disaster will there be lucre for them?

25 I did weep for the man who was having a hard time,

my soul grieved for the needy man;

26 I hoped for good, and evil came;

I awaited light, and murky darkness came.

27 My vitals are boiling, never still;

days of suffering confront me.

28* I go in mourning without sunshine,

stand up and clamor publicly.

29 I am brother to jackals

and fellow to ostriches.

30 My skin blackens and comes off,

and my bones are hot with fever.

31 And my lyre has turned to mourning

and my pipe to the voices of weepers.