The congregation hypocrites create,

Of flocks and herds, of children and estate;
With desolations, hurled across their path,
Shall be destroyed by God Almighty's wrath.
A fire, consuming in its fury free,

Shall burn to ashes haunts of bribery;
For mischief only do they all devise,

And bring forth vanity by telling lies.

CHAPTER X.

JOB'S SECOND REPLY TO ELIPHAZ.

THIS speech of Job, in answer to Eliphaz, is replete with language of complaint, bitterness, and distress. Eliphaz had, in a former speech, spoken with tenderness, graciousness, and consideration; but in his last speech, to which Job now replies, he is very severe. He implies that Job is unmistakably a very wicked man, incorrigible, and past finding favor with God. Job was a Sheik, or Emir, a judge, or magistrate at the head of a tribe. Eliphaz intimates that he was guilty of bribery, and that he would be entirely destroyed. He speaks in the third person, but unquestionably refers to Job. This was very provoking to the patriarch, and called forth a powerful reply. He says to his three friends that it is easy to speak as they had done; that if they were to change places, he could use similar language respecting them, but would not; that he would rather comfort them. He describes his sorrows in touching and graphic language. He declares that God has made him weary, filled him with wrinkles, torn him in his wrath, delivered him to the ungodly, surprised him when at ease, compassed him about, and rushed on him like a giant. He felt that he did not deserve such treatment; that his life was innocent, and his prayers pure. Driven to desperation through suffering, and the reproaches of his pretended friends, he appeals to the earth not to cover his blood, but disclose his wrongs, and begs that his blood might cry out from the ground in attestation of his innocence. He desires to plead his cause before God, that he might obtain justice from one who could appreciate him, and not deride him, and reproach him, like his friends. He intimates that soon this unnatural warfare will be over, and he shall go to the land of shades, to sleep in peace. He complains bitterly of his friends, and says that mockers are with him, whose hearts God had hid from understanding, and who could never be exalted. Although now a by-word, yet, he declares that the time would come, when upright men would be astonished at his fate; would wonder at his afflictions, the treachery, and cruelty of his friends, and the neglect of God to vindicate him. He proclaims it as a great truth that the righteous should hold on his way, but that amongst all his friends not one wise man was found. He looks to the grave as the only termination of his calamities. He was ready to call corruption his father, and the worm his sister, and mother. They were his best friends, and would receive him with joy, and give him rest.

Then Job replied, with deep emotions stirred,
Such things as these, how many I have heard?

Instead of friends in time of special need,
Ye're miserable comforters indeed.
Professing much with pity to condole,

Your bitter speech afflicts my wounded soul.
Shall words of wind a limit find with thee?
Or what emboldens thee to answer me?
For I could speak as bitter as ye do,
And string together ancient maxims too.
If you were standing in my wretched place,
Then I could throw invectives in your face;
Recite the sayings of the ancient dead,
And at you shake contempt'ously my head.
But then with words, unwearied, and at length,
My mouth would give you unabated strength;
My quiv'ring lips, expressing sweet relief,

With gentle words would much assuage your grief.
But though I speak my grief is not appeased,

If I forbear in nothing I am eased.

If I attempt to clear myself from blame,
My dreadful suff'rings still remain the same.
Though I submit in silence to my fate,
I find no comfort in my wretched state.
Entreaty, silence, argument, or plea,
Avail me not with either God or thee.
For now hath God exhausted all my might,
And made me weary in this useless fight;
His blast hath touched my long enjoyed estate,
And made my house forever desolate.

Drawn up with pain, no balm doth yet assuage,
As wrinkles draw the withered face of age;
Compressed and bound before his holy eyes,
Like fettered lambs when tied for sacrifice;
My piteous, wrinkled, and contracted plight,
Becomes a witness in thy jealous sight.
My leanness, rising in its loathsome place,
Belies me also to my conscious face.
The false appearance now displayed by me,
Divine displeasure seems to prove to thee.
As tigers seize and tear their trembling prey,
That cross, unwarned, their watched and guarded way;
So now my foe doth spring from out his path,
And seize and tear me in his boundless wrath.
With gnashing teeth he fiercely at me flies,
And sharp'neth on me both his hostile eyes.
He darts his looks, and on me sets his gaze,

As eyes of lions throw their fiery blaze.

With gaping mouths, like savage beasts that spring,
My cruel friends their bitter speeches fling.
They smite me sorely with reproachful blows,
And deal their vengeance on my cheeks and nose.
Agreed, conspiring, and united strong,

They come together, and revile me long.

And God my soul hath made for righteous ends,

To be the captive of ungodly friends.

A prisoner also to his just commands,

He's hurled me headlong into wicked hands.

I dwelt at ease before this dreadful stroke,
But He hath crushed me and asunder broke.
As cruel brutes that hunt the smaller prey,
Do seize the neck, and fiercely shake and slay;
So He did take me by the strangled neck,
And hurl and crush me to a broken wreck.
He set me up exposed to public view,
A shining mark to shoot His arrows through.
He comes not forth alone to pierce and wound,
His skilful archers compass me around.
He cleaves my reins asunder with his darts,
From ev'ry pore the crimson fountain starts.
His practised shooters draw the twanging bow,
And spare no pains the arrows true to throw.
He pours my gall, with ev'ry hissing sound,

In streams of gore upon the thirsty ground.
With breach on breach he breaks me sore alarmed,

And runneth on me like a giant armed.

I've sewed the sackcloth on my broken skin,

In mournful token of my chastened sin.
My horn of strength, of glory, power, and trust,
Have I defiled, and covered deep, with dust.
With grief and tears my face is hot and red,
The cloud of death is dark around my head.
'Tis not because injustice stains my hands,
My prayer is pure, and just are his commands.
O, earth, in thee, my blood do not conceal,
But let it speak, and all my wrongs reveal;