Job 27
1 And Job addeth to lift up his simile, and saith: —
Job heldt fram med talen sin og sagde:
2 God liveth! He turned aside my judgment, And the Mighty — He made my soul bitter.
«So sant Gud liver, som meg sveik, og Allvalds som meg volde sorg
3 For all the while my breath [is] in me, And the spirit of God in my nostrils.
- for endå eg min ande dreg; i nosi mi er guddomspust -:
4 My lips do not speak perverseness, And my tongue doth not utter deceit.
Urett ligg ei på mine lippor; mi tunga talar ikkje svik.
5 Pollution to me — if I justify you, Till I expire I turn not aside mine integrity from me.
D’er langt frå meg å gje’ dykk rett, mi uskyld held eg fast til dauden.
6 On my righteousness I have laid hold, And I do not let it go, My heart doth not reproach me while I live.
Mi rettferd held eg fast uskjepla, eg ingen dag treng skjemmast ved.
7 As the wicked is my enemy, And my withstander as the perverse.
Min fiend’ skal seg syna gudlaus, min motstandar som urettferdig.
8 For what [is] the hope of the profane, When He doth cut off? When God doth cast off his soul?
Kva von hev en gudlaus att, når Gud vil sjæli or han draga?
9 His cry doth God hear, When distress cometh on him?
Vil Gud vel høyra skriket hans, når trengsla bryt innyver honom?
10 On the Mighty doth he delight himself? Call God at all times?
Kann han i Allvald vel seg gleda? Kann han kvar tid påkalla Gud?
11 I shew you by the hand of God, That which [is] with the Mighty I hide not.
Eg um Guds hand vil læra dykk; kva Allvald vil, det dyl eg ikkje.
12 Lo, ye — all of you — have seen, And why [is] this — ye are altogether vain?
Sjå dette hev det alle set; kvi talar de då tome ord?
13 This [is] the portion of wicked man with God, And the inheritance of terrible ones From the Mighty they receive.
Den lut fær gudlause av Gud, den arven valdsmann fær av Allvald.
14 If his sons multiply — for them [is] a sword. And his offspring [are] not satisfied [with] bread.
Til sverdet veks hans søner upp; hans avkom mettast ei med brød;
15 His remnant in death are buried, And his widows do not weep.
dei siste legst i grav ved pest, og enkjorne held ingi klaga.
16 If he heap up as dust silver, And as clay prepare clothing,
Og um han dyngjer sylv som dust og samlar klæde liksom leir:
17 He prepareth — and the righteous putteth [it] on, And the silver the innocent doth apportion.
Den rettvise tek klædi på; skuldlause skifter sylvet hans.
18 He hath built as a moth his house, And as a booth a watchman hath made.
Han byggjer huset sitt som molen, likt hytta vaktmannen set upp.
19 Rich he lieth down, and he is not gathered, His eyes he hath opened, and he is not.
Rik legg han seg - men aldri meir; han opnar augo - og er burte.
20 Overtake him as waters do terrors, By night stolen him away hath a whirlwind.
Som vatsflaum rædsla honom tek, ved natt riv stormen honom burt.
21 Take him up doth an east wind, and he goeth, And it frighteneth him from his place,
Han driv av stad for austanvind, som blæs han frå hans heimstad burt.
22 And it casteth at him, and doth not spare, From its hand he diligently fleeth.
Han utan miskunn på han skyt; frå handi hans han røma må.
23 It clappeth at him its hands, And it hisseth at him from his place.
Med hender klappar dei åt han og pip han frå hans heimstad burt.
