Job's Complaint

Dublin Core


Job's Complaint


Of all my race there breathes not one

To comfort or deplore me;

Pain wakes a pulse in every bone,

And death is closing o'er me.

Still doth his lifter stroke delay,

Protracted tortures dooming,

I feel, ere life has pass'd away,

His very worm consuming.

Night spreads her mantle o'er the sky,

And all around are sleeping,

While I, in tears of agony,

My restless couch am steeping.

I sigh for morn - the rising day

Awakes the earth to gladness;

I turn, with sickening soul, away -

It smiles upon my sadness.

The light wave, sparkling in the beam

That trembles o'er the river,

A moment sheds its quivering gleam,

Then shuns the sight for ever;

So soft a ray can pleasure shed,

While secret snares surround it,

So swift the faithless hope is fled,

Which wins the heart to wound it!

A crown of glory graced my brow -

Whole nations bent before me:

Princes and hoary siress would bow,

To flatter and adore me.

To me the widow turn'd for aid,

And ne'er in vain address'd me;

For me the grateful orphan pray'd -

The soul of misery bless'd me.

I raised the drooping wretch that pined,

In lonely anguish lying;

Was balm unto the wounded mind,

And solace to the dying.

Till one stern stroke, of all my state,

Of all my bliss bereft me;

And I was worse than desolate,

For God himself had left me.

Ye, too, as life itself beloved,

When all conspired to bless me,

I deem'd you friends - but ye have proved,

The foes who most oppress me.

I could have borne the slave's rude scorn,

The wreck of all I cherish'd;

Had one, but one, remain'd to mourn

O'er me, when I, too, perish'd.

My children sleep in death's cold shade,

And nought can now divide them:

O! would the same wild storm had laid,

Their wretched sire beside them -

I had not then been doom'd to see

The loss of all who love me;

Unbroken would my slumbers be,

Though none had wept above me.

All hope on earth for ever fled,

A higher hope remaineth;

E'en while his wrath is o'er me shed,

I know my Saviour reigneth.

The worm may waste this withering clay,

When flesh and spirit sever;

My soul shall see eternal day,

And dwell with God for ever!




New Series 1:24, p. 5




Dale, “Job's Complaint,” Periodical Poets, accessed May 18, 2024,


Allowed tags: <p>, <a>, <em>, <strong>, <ul>, <ol>, <li>