Job 30
Job laments that younger men, who are unworthy and of low social status, now scorn and mock him, while he has become their song and proverb. They live in poverty and misery, yet they rejoice in their circumstances, and Job has become the object of their ridicule. Job feels that God has afflicted him, and his calamities have increased, leaving him with no help or comfort. He cries out to God, but feels that God has turned against him, and he is now treated like dirt and ashes.
But now, those younger in years scorn me, whose fathers I would not have seen fit to place with the dogs of my flockthe strength of whose hands was nothing to me, and they were considered unworthy of life itselfThey were barren from poverty and hunger; they gnawed in solitude, layered with misfortune and miseryAnd they chewed grass and the bark from trees, and the root of junipers was their foodThey took these things from the steep valleys, and when they discovered one of these things, they rushed to the others with a cryThey lived in the parched desert and in caves underground or above the rocksThey rejoiced among these kinds of things, and they considered it delightful to be under thornsThese are the sons of foolish and base men, not even paying any attention to the landNow I become their song, and I have been made into their proverbThey loathe me, and so they flee far from me, and they are not reluctant to spit in my faceFor he has opened his quiver and has afflicted me, and he has placed a bridle in my mouthImmediately, upon rising, my calamities rise up to the right. They have overturned my feet and have pressed me down along their way like wavesThey have diverted my journeys; they have waited to ambush me, and they have prevailed, and there was no one who might bring helpThey have rushed upon me, as when a wall is broken or a gate opened, and they have been pulled down into my miseriesI have been reduced to nothing. You have taken away my desire like a wind, and my health has passed by like a cloudBut now my soul withers within myself, and the days of affliction take hold of meAt night, my bone is pierced with sorrows, and those who feed on me, do not sleepBy the sheer number of them my clothing is worn away, and they have closed in on me like the collar of my coatI have been treated like dirt, and I have been turned into embers and ashesI cry to you, and you do not heed me. I stand up, and you do not look back at meYou have changed me into hardness, and, with the hardness of your hand, you oppose meYou have lifted me up, and, placing me as if on the wind, you have thrown me down powerfullyI know that you will hand me over to death, where a home has been established for all the livingTruly, then, you do not extend your hand in order to consume them, and if they fall down, you will save themOnce, I wept over him who was afflicted, and my soul had compassion on the poorI expected good things, but evil things have come to me. I stood ready for light, yet darkness burst forthMy insides have seethed, without any rest, for the days of affliction have prevented itI went forth mourning, without anger, and rising up, I cried out in confusionI was the brother of snakes, and the companion of ostrichesMy skin has become blackened over me, and my bones have dried up because of the heatMy harp has been turned into mourning, and my pipes have been turned into a voice of weeping
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