Job 27
1 And Job addeth to lift up his simile, and saith: —
Job vedblev at fremsætte sit Tankesprog:
2 God liveth! He turned aside my judgment, And the Mighty — He made my soul bitter.
Saa sandt Gud lever, som satte min Ret til Side, den Almægtige, som gjorde mig mod i Hu:
3 For all the while my breath [is] in me, And the spirit of God in my nostrils.
Saa længe jeg drager Aande og har Guds Aande i Næsen,
4 My lips do not speak perverseness, And my tongue doth not utter deceit.
skal mine Læber ej tale Uret, min Tunge ej fare med Svig!
5 Pollution to me — if I justify you, Till I expire I turn not aside mine integrity from me.
Langt være det fra mig at give jer Ret; til jeg udaander, opgiver jeg ikke min Uskyld.
6 On my righteousness I have laid hold, And I do not let it go, My heart doth not reproach me while I live.
Jeg hævder min Ret, jeg slipper den ikke, ingen af mine Dage piner mit Sind.
7 As the wicked is my enemy, And my withstander as the perverse.
Som den gudløse gaa det min Fjende, min Modstander som den lovløse!
8 For what [is] the hope of the profane, When He doth cut off? When God doth cast off his soul?
Thi hvad er den vanhelliges Haab, naar Gud bortskærer og kræver hans Sjæl?
9 His cry doth God hear, When distress cometh on him?
Hører mon Gud hans Skrig, naar Angst kommer over ham?
10 On the Mighty doth he delight himself? Call God at all times?
Mon han kan fryde sig over den Almægtige, føjer han ham, naar han paakalder ham?
11 I shew you by the hand of God, That which [is] with the Mighty I hide not.
Jeg vil lære jer om Guds Haand, den Almægtiges Tanker dølger jeg ikke;
12 Lo, ye — all of you — have seen, And why [is] this — ye are altogether vain?
se, selv har I alle set det, hvi har I saa tomme Tanker?
13 This [is] the portion of wicked man with God, And the inheritance of terrible ones From the Mighty they receive.
Det er den gudløses Lod fra Gud, Arven, som Voldsmænd faar fra den Almægtige:
14 If his sons multiply — for them [is] a sword. And his offspring [are] not satisfied [with] bread.
Vokser hans Sønner, er det for Sværdet, hans Afkom mættes ikke med Brød;
15 His remnant in death are buried, And his widows do not weep.
de øvrige bringer Pesten i Graven, deres Enker kan ej holde Klage over dem.
16 If he heap up as dust silver, And as clay prepare clothing,
Opdynger han Sølv som Støv og samler sig Klæder som Ler —
17 He prepareth — and the righteous putteth [it] on, And the silver the innocent doth apportion.
han samler, men den retfærdige klæder sig i dem, og Sølvet arver den skyldfri;
18 He hath built as a moth his house, And as a booth a watchman hath made.
han bygger sit Hus som en Edderkops, som Hytten, en Vogter gør sig;
19 Rich he lieth down, and he is not gathered, His eyes he hath opened, and he is not.
han lægger sig rig, men for sidste Gang, han slaar Øjnene op, og er det ej mer;
20 Overtake him as waters do terrors, By night stolen him away hath a whirlwind.
Rædsler naar ham som Vande, ved Nat river Stormen ham bort;
21 Take him up doth an east wind, and he goeth, And it frighteneth him from his place,
løftet af Østenstorm farer han bort, den fejer ham væk fra hans Sted.
22 And it casteth at him, and doth not spare, From its hand he diligently fleeth.
Skaanselsløst skyder han paa ham, i Hast maa han fly fra hans Haand;
23 It clappeth at him its hands, And it hisseth at him from his place.
man klapper i Hænderne mod ham og piber ham bort fra hans Sted!
