Job 30

1 But, now, they who are of fewer days than I, have poured derision upon me; whose fathers I refused—to set with the dogs of my flock.

2 Even the strength of their hands, wherefore was it mine? Upon them, vigour was lost;

3 In want and hunger, they were lean, —who used to gnaw the dry ground, a dark night of desolation!

4 Who used to pluck off the mallow by the bushes, with the root of the broom for their food;

5 Out of the midst, were they driven, men shouted after them, as after a thief;

6 In the fissures, of the ravines had they to dwell, in holes of dust and crags;

7 Among the bushes, used they to shriek, Under the bramble, were they huddled together:

8 Sons of the base, yea sons of the nameless, they were scourged out of the land.

9 But, now, their song, have I become, Yea I serve them for a byword;

10 They abhor me—have put themselves far from me, and, from my face, have not withheld—spittle!

11 Because, my girdle, he had loosened and had humbled me, therefore, the bridle—in my presence, cast they off;

12 On my right hand, the young brood rose up, —My feet, they thrust aside, and cast up against me their earthworks of destruction;

13 They brake up my path, —My engulfing ruin, they helped forward, unaided;

14 As through a wide breach, came they on, with a crashing noise, they rolled themselves along.

15 There are turned upon me terrors, —Chased away as with a wind, is mine abundance, and, as a cloud, hath passed away my prosperity.

16 Now, therefore, over myself, my soul poureth itself out, There seize me days of affliction:

17 Night, boreth, my bones, all over me, —and, my sinews, find no rest;

18 Most effectually, is my skin disfigured, —Like the collar of my tunic, it girdeth me about:

19 He hath cast me into the mire, and I have become like dust and ashes.

20 I cry out for help unto thee, and thou dost not answer, I stand still, and thou dost gaze at me;

21 Thou art turned to become a cruel one unto me, With the might of thy hand, thou assailest me;

22 Thou liftest up me to the wind, thou carriest me away, and the storm maketh me faint;

23 For I know that, unto death, thou wilt bring me back, even unto the house of meeting for every one living.

24 Only, against a heap of ruins, will one not thrust a hand! Surely, when one is in calamity—for that very reason, is there an outcry for help.

25 Verily I wept, for him whose lot was hard, Grieved was my soul, for the needy.

26 Surely, for good, I looked, but there came in evil, And I waited for light, but there came in darkness;

27 I boiled within me, and rested not, There confronted me—days of affliction;

28 In gloom, I walked along, without sun, I arose—in the convocation, I cried out for help;

29 A brother, became I to the brutes that howl, and a companion to the birds that screech:

30 My skin, turned black, and peeled off me, and, my bones, burned with heat:

31 Thus is attuned to mourning—my lyre, and my flute, to the noise of them who weep.