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Job 30
The mirror of chapter 29 turns dark. "But now" — the phrase that opens it — Job is mocked by men younger than he, sons of outcasts he wouldn't have set with his sheep dogs, men driven to gnaw dry ground and eat roots of the broom tree. The contempt is physical: they spit in his face, crowd his path, chase his honor like the wind. From there the lament turns toward God, whom Job now accuses of having become cruel to him.
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“But now those who are younger than I have me in derision, whose fathers I considered unworthy to put with my sheep dogs.
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Of what use is the strength of their hands to me, men in whom ripe age has perished?
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They are gaunt from lack and famine. They gnaw the dry ground, in the gloom of waste and desolation.
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They pluck salt herbs by the bushes. The roots of the broom tree are their food.
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They are driven out from among men. They cry after them as after a thief,
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so that they live in frightful valleys, and in holes of the earth and of the rocks.
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They bray among the bushes. They are gathered together under the nettles.
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They are children of fools, yes, children of wicked men. They were flogged out of the land.
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“Now I have become their song. Yes, I am a byword to them.
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They abhor me, they stand aloof from me, and don’t hesitate to spit in my face.
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For he has untied his cord, and afflicted me; and they have thrown off restraint before me.
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On my right hand rise the rabble. They thrust aside my feet. They cast their ways of destruction up against me.
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They mar my path. They promote my destruction without anyone’s help.
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As through a wide breach they come. They roll themselves in amid the ruin.
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Terrors have turned on me. They chase my honor as the wind. My welfare has passed away as a cloud.
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“Now my soul is poured out within me. Days of affliction have taken hold of me.
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In the night season my bones are pierced in me, and the pains that gnaw me take no rest.
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My garment is disfigured by great force. It binds me about as the collar of my tunic.
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He has cast me into the mire. I have become like dust and ashes.
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I cry to you, and you do not answer me. I stand up, and you gaze at me.
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You have turned to be cruel to me. With the might of your hand you persecute me.
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You lift me up to the wind, and drive me with it. You dissolve me in the storm.
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For I know that you will bring me to death, to the house appointed for all living.
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“However doesn’t one stretch out a hand in his fall? Or in his calamity therefore cry for help?
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Didn’t I weep for him who was in trouble? Wasn’t my soul grieved for the needy?
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When I looked for good, then evil came. When I waited for light, darkness came.
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My heart is troubled, and doesn’t rest. Days of affliction have come on me.
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I go mourning without the sun. I stand up in the assembly, and cry for help.
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I am a brother to jackals, and a companion to ostriches.
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My skin grows black and peels from me. My bones are burned with heat.
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Therefore my harp has turned to mourning, and my pipe into the voice of those who weep.
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“Mas agora os que são mais jovens do que eu zombam de mim, cujos pais eu considerava indignos de colocar com os cães do meu rebanho.
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De que me serve a força das suas mãos, homens em quem o vigor da idade pereceu?
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Eles estão abatidos pela miséria e pela fome. Eles roem a terra seca, na escuridão da ruína e da desolação.
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Eles colhem ervas salgadas junto aos arbustos. As raízes da giesta são a sua comida.
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Eles são expulsos do meio dos homens. Gritam atrás deles como atrás de um ladrão,
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de modo que vivem em vales assustadores, e em buracos da terra e das rochas.
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Eles zurram entre os arbustos. Eles se reúnem debaixo das urtigas.
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Eles são filhos de insensatos, sim, filhos de homens perversos. Eles foram expulsos da terra a chicotadas.
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“Agora eu me tornei a canção deles. Sim, sou um provérbio para eles.
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Eles me abominam, mantêm-se afastados de mim, e não hesitam em cuspir no meu rosto.
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Pois ele desatou a sua corda, e me afligiu; e eles lançaram fora o freio diante de mim.
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À minha direita levanta-se a ralé. Eles empurram os meus pés. Eles constroem seus caminhos de destruição contra mim.
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Eles arruínam o meu caminho. Eles promovem a minha destruição sem a ajuda de ninguém.
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Como por uma larga brecha eles vêm. Eles rolam para dentro em meio à ruína.
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Terrores se voltaram contra mim. Eles perseguem a minha honra como o vento. O meu bem-estar passou como uma nuvem.
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“Agora a minha alma se derrama dentro de mim. Dias de aflição se apoderaram de mim.
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Durante a noite os meus ossos são perfurados em mim, e as dores que me roem não descansam.
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A minha roupa está desfigurada por grande força. Ela me aperta como a gola da minha túnica.
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Ele me lançou na lama. Eu me tornei como pó e cinza.
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Eu clamo a ti, e tu não me respondes. Eu me levanto, e tu ficas olhando para mim.
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Tu te tornaste cruel para comigo. Com a força da tua mão tu me persegues.
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Tu me levantas ao vento, e me arrastas com ele. Tu me dissolves na tempestade.
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Pois eu sei que tu me levarás à morte, à casa destinada a todos os viventes.
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“Contudo, não estende a mão aquele que está caindo? Ou na sua calamidade não clama por socorro?
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Não chorei eu por aquele que estava em apuros? Não se entristeceu a minha alma pelo necessitado?
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Quando eu esperava o bem, então veio o mal. Quando eu aguardava a luz, veio a escuridão.
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O meu coração está perturbado, e não descansa. Dias de aflição vieram sobre mim.
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Eu ando de luto, sem o sol. Eu me levanto na congregação, e clamo por socorro.
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Eu sou irmão dos chacais, e companheiro dos avestruzes.
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A minha pele escurece e cai de mim. Os meus ossos estão queimados pelo calor.
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Por isso a minha harpa se tornou em lamento, e a minha flauta na voz dos que choram.
From honored to byword
Where the city once fell silent before him, Job is now their song and their byword. The rabble rises on his right, breaking through against him as through a wide breach — the imagery of a besieged city under assault.
The closing verses press the indictment onto God directly: "I cry to you, and you do not answer me." Job, who once wept for those in trouble, has become a brother to jackals; his harp has turned to mourning, his pipe to the voice of weepers.
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