Ferocious beasts their hostile voice shall cease,
And evermore be found with thee at peace;
When far away on journeys thou shalt roam,
Secure, from harm, shall be thy tented home;
In health, and safety thou shalt sure come back,
And never miss the shortest homeward track;
And thou shalt know that great shall be thy seed,
And offspring num'rous, as the grass, shall breed ;
And thou shalt come, in wisdom ripe and sage,
To meet the grave in full, and hoary age;
Like shocks of corn that in their season fall,
Matured, and waiting for the reaper's call.
Lo! this we've searched, and found it strictly true,
Hear it, and know how good it is for you.
JOBS REPLY TO ELIPHAZ'S FIRST SPEECH.
THIS reply expresses strong emotion, and very great sorrow; deep piety, with occasional impatience; and remonstrance with God against his afflictions. He feels very keenly the dignified, and implied condemnation of Eliphaz. In bitter anguish he gives vent to very vehement, and impatient expressions. He justifies the bitterness of his complaints, made in his previous speech, from the great severity of his sufferings He further sets forth the depth and extent of his afflictions, in order that Eliphaz may more fully understand them, and take pity on him. He desires his friends to weigh thoroughly, and attentively his grief; declares that God's arrows are in him, and His terrors are arrayed against him. He denies that he complains, in a causeless manner, any more than the ass, or ox brays or lows, in a causeless manner, when dying of hunger. He desires to die, because he thinks he will find rest in the grave. He has not strength to bear these bitter trials. He declares that one so horribly afflicted should nave the sympathy of his friends; but that his have deceived him, and increased his sorrows; have proved like deceitful brooks, dried up in hot weather, and deceptive to travelers. He desires his friends to look into his case more fully, and see the justice of his bitter complaints. He fully believes that they did not know him, nor comprehend his sufferings, and consequently had no sympathy with him. He recapitulates his sufferings. He says that life is short, and the days of man are like those of the hireling, looking for wages, and the close of day; that his days and nights are filled with vanity, pain, and sorrow, and that he looks for the shades of the evening. He gives a pitiful description of his disease; his flesh is filled with worms, and clods of dust; his days are swift, and vanish like a cloud. How could he help speaking, in anguish, and bitterness of soul? Stung almost to despair, by a sense of his horrid sufferings, he remonstrates, with great vehemence, and impatience, with God, for afflicting him thus. He feels that it is unjust, and cruel. He asks if he is a sea, or a whale, that God should set a watch over him; he declares that when he would rest, and his couch should ease his sore complaint, God scares him with dreadful visions, and dreams; that he loathes and hates life. He asks what man is that God so delights to visit him, and never let him alone. He wishes to know what injury he had done to God that he should so afflict him; why he does not forgive him, and withdraw his hand.
But Job, in sorrow, raised his shaven head,
And thus, in answer, to his friend he said:
Oh! that my grief could now be throughly weighed!
And my calamity in scales were laid!
For heavier far it surely now would be,
Than all the sand beneath the boundless sea.
The bitt'rest dregs compose my daily cup,
And hence my words, in grief, are swallowed up.
Th' Almighty's arrows deep within me sink,
Their deadly poison doth my spirit drink;
Jehovah's terrors, threat'ning ev'ry day,
Against me set themselves in strong array.
The pangs of sorrow make me groan, and sigh,
And constitute the reasons of my cry.
Brays the wild ass when grass he hath to eat?
Or lows the ox o'er fodder rich and sweet?
From grief and trouble I am worn, and faint,
My soul hath reasons for its sad complaint;
You misconceive the causes why I sigh,
And inward groan, and utter loud my cry ;
You neither bray, nor low like ass or ox,
Because you've grass, and fodder's fragrant locks;
You're fat, and sleek, from ev'ry trouble free,
You know not therefore how to pity me.
Can things unsav'ry without salt be good?
Has white of eggs the taste of dainty food?
The things my soul did once refuse to eat,
Are now my sorrowful and daily meat.
As loathsome food my troubles make me ill,
And yet I eat these dreadful sorrows still.
Oh! now that I might have this one request,
That God would grant the longing of my breast;
That even now 'twould please Almighty God,
To smite me down, with His uplifted rod;
To crush me up, and bruise me unto death,
And, by His judgment, take away my breath;
That he would now unloose his mighty hand,
And cut me off from this unhappy land;
As weavers cut the web from out their loom,
And thus complete my wretched, earthly doom.
Then I should yet some consolation take,
And exultation in my anguish make.
Let him not spare me, nor from pity shield,
For I have not the words of God concealed.
And what's my light, in which my soul doth grope ?
Or what's my strength that I should longer hope?
No thrilling joy awakes my earthly song,
And what's my end that I should life prolong?
Is this my strength the mighty strength of stones ?
Doth solid brass compose my flesh and bones?
The craggy rocks endure the pelting blasts,
The iron hail the rage of war outlasts
But I'm not chiseled from the hardened rocks,
To bear, unmoved, affliction's dreadful shocks.
My help is not within my own control,
And wisdom's driven from my foolish soul.
For him that doth, in sorrow's furnace, melt,
Should tender pity by his friend be felt.
But yet he sheds no sympathizing tear,
And thus forsaketh God Almighty's fear.
Instead of comfort, in my troubles sore,
His words, upbraiding, make my sorrows more.
I looked for words of pity and relief,
To cheer my heart, and thus assuage my grief;
As weary pilgrims look for water round,
And search for streams along the desert ground;
The fulness, strength, and noise they often send,
Do answer well to this my former friend;
Their dryness too beneath the heated ray,
Resembles much this summer friend to-day.
Deceitfully my brethren all have done,
As mountain brooks, and valley-streams do run;
That turbid, swollen, and tumultuous flow,
In consequence of melted ice and snow;
In warmer days, they dry up here and there,
But when 'tis hot, they vanish ev'rywhere;
Their channels wind along the arid land,
They go to nothing, lost within the sand.
For streams, dependent for their swollen mouth,
On snows, and storms, afford no trust in drouth;
The troops of Tema searched the sandy plain,
The tribes of Sheba waited long in vain.
They thither came, in caravans immense,
To quench their thirst, from fountains flowing thenc
But when they saw the streams' deserted bed,
Perplexed, confounded, and ashamed, they fled.
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