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Job 30 Gone With the Wind
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This is the 28th in a series of 40 poems I wrote based on the book of Job. This is from Job 30, Job speaks of his anguish. Open your Bible, read along and let me know your thoughts!
my hope is gone like the wind
Such derision and scorn by these men newly-born,
so much younger than I — yet they mock!
But their fathers! No how would I ever allow
them to run with the dogs of my flock!
Any hope that I'd gain from their strength would be vain,
since their vigor has long taken flight.
They are hungry and gaunt, looking haggard from want
as they roam through parched wastelands at night.
And they fall to their knees scrounging roots of the trees,
eating herbs that are bitter, and leaves.
When the town disapproved they were forcibly moved,
driven out — they were treated as thieves.
So life forced them to cope on the wadi's dry slope,
among rocks and in holes underground.
They cried out and they brayed, among bushes they stayed,
huddled there among nettles they found.
They were children of fools, without names — without rules,
they were outcasts and dregs of the earth.
Now this odious throng deigns to mock me in song;
I'm a byword and joke for their mirth.
They despise me and jeer me and never come near
me except when they spit in my face.
Since God's unstrung my bow — my defenses are low;
they attack at a much quicker pace.
To my right, they are there; at my feet, lays their snare;
and their final assault is at hand.
My escape is in vain, for my loss is their gain
and I'm helpless to stop what they've planned.
They've advanced through a breach, like waves crashing the beach;
they come rolling in — haughty and proud.
By great terrors, I'm pinned; my hope's gone with the wind,
and my wealth's disappeared like a cloud.
As my life ebbs away I live day after day
in great suffering, torment and grief.
Every night shooting pains from my bones through my veins,
flesh and sinews — there's just no relief.
Oozing sores act like glue so my clothes hang askew;
they're discolored and hardened with crust.
And by God’s hand, alone, into mud I’ve been thrown;
he's reduced me to ashes and dust.
I cry out — don't you hear? But you do not appear;
I stand up — but you do not look back.
You are crueler to me than a master should be;
with your powerful hand you attack.
I'm snatched up in your gale, in your tempest I flail;
I'm destroyed in the storms that you bring.
For I know you will send me to death in the end —
that is destined for each living thing.
Surely, any would stretch out his hand to the wretch
and the needy when they seek relief.
Don't I already mourn for the poor and forlorn?
Does my heart not pour out for their grief?
From the good that I sought, only evil was wrought;
when I looked for the light, darkness fell.
But this churning I hide will not ever subside;
every day is a lifetime of hell.
I am blackened as one who's been burned by the sun;
the assembly has heard all my pleas.
Like the jackals that howl, or the ostrich and owl,
I am friend and a brother to these.
And my skin, front to back — it is peeling and black,
and there's heat that is burning my bones.
I have tuned my harp's string to the dirge mourners sing,
and my flute to their weeping and groans.
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