A Metrical Version of the Book of Job

Front matter

A

Metrical Version

of

Introduction

This little work has been undertaken, not with any presumptuous notion of elucidating, or adorning Scripture, but simply with a hope to commend to the young mind and memory, through the medium of rhythm, the deep truths and the Divine instruction contained in the Book of Job, which appears to be a portion of the Sacred Writings, peculiarly adapted to varied metrical composition.

Texts are occasionally transposed where the meaning seems to be thus more clearly set forth. Various translations, with the most generally approved commentaries, have been carefully consulted in every passage of difficulty; and where, from obscurity in the original Hebrew, Authorities have drawn only probable inferences as to its meaning, a similar liberty has been assumed in this version; whilst the historical part is somewhat amplified, chiefly for the sake of explanation; otherwise the received text has been as literally adhered to, as was consistent with the object in view.

Chapter I.

The Book of Job,

in verse.

Chapter I.

Few were the ages since the world began, When in the land of Uz there liv'd a man Who serv'd with upright heart, and fear'd his God, And in life's path with perfect footsteps trod. Seven sons like palm trees grew, and grac'd his side, And three fair daughters bloom'd, his joy and pride. A thousand oxen till'd for him the plain, Bounteous in oil, and milk, and golden grain; Five hundred asses brows'd the scented herb, And rear'd their young by founts none dar'd disturb. Three thousand camels roam'd, a desert herd; Of flocks, seven thousand cropt the grassy sward— These, and unnumbered vassals own'd him lord; And none like Job in that bright land was found Equal in gifts, and thus with blessings crown'd.

Not for his own soul only, was his care; His household train'd he with a godly fear. And as his sons oft-times, on pleasure bent, Went forth, each for his day of merriment,

Whene'er they turn'd them to their banquet-hall, And their young sisters to the feast did call, The father's heart would tremble lest His child, Heated by wine and youthful folly wild, Should curse his God, or lightly breathe His name; And so, from earliest morn, the altar's flame He fed with offerings pure; and incense, meet Their sins to expiate, rose with perfume sweet. Thus Job, each child upon his heart did bear, And sanctified by sacrifice and prayer; And still his blessings with his years increase, And glides his life in righteousness and peace.

A day there came, when midst the sons of Heaven, Or urg'd by hate, or by ambition driven, The Soul of Sin appear'd—a Shape of night, Casting its shadow o'er those Forms of light Who gathering met before the Almighty's throne, To learn His will, or tell of mandates done. Then spake the Lord supreme, with awful brow; "Amongst the holy, Satan, whence art thou?" Answer'd the Prince of Darkness, "I am come "From wandering up and down in restless doom, "And to and fro, upon Thy footstool, earth, "Whose evil hearts and cruel tempt me forth." Again God question'd him,—"Hast thou not seen "And mark'd a perfect man?—one who hath been "Upright before me, faithful in my sight, "Eschewing evil, keeping to the right, "Ordering his footsteps with a godly fear? "Such is my servant Job, beyond compare." Him Satan answer'd,—"Is it all for nought "That Job doth serve his God in deed and thought?

"Hast thou not bless'd his hands, his house, his heart? "And hedg'd about his life in every part? "Increas'd his substance, and enlarg'd his land, "And led him safely with thy guardian hand? "Touch but his wealth with ruin, and behold "How he will curse thee for his barn and fold." Then unto Satan spake the Lord once more: "All that he hath is lent unto thy power, "But see thou touch not him, e'en for one hour." So, from the Holy Presence forth he fled, And for the evil work his dark wing spread.

Now over Job hath lower'd another day— His children all had gone their wonted way, And with their eldest brother met to feast; When lo! a messenger in eager haste, Spake to the father thus: "The oxen plough'd, "By them the asses fed where streamlets flow'd, "When rush'd upon them a Sabean band, "And slew thy servants with their ruffian brand, "And of the death and rapine that befel, "I only have escap'd, the tale to tell." Whilst thus he spake, another breathless came, And said, "There fell from heaven God's awful flame, "And all thy flocks have perish'd in the fire, "And all thy shepherds in that burning dire; "And of the loss and terror that befel, "I of the whole, alone, have liv'd to tell." And ere this ceas'd, another swift was heard, "Three bands Chaldean unawares appear'd; "They fell upon thy camels, and the men "Who guarded them they with the sword have slain;

"And of the theft and slaughter that befel, "I only have been left the news to tell." Then e'en before had ceas'd to speak the last, There straight began another in like haste: Thy sons and daughters in thy first-born's house, "Did eat and drink, and merrily carouse, "When came a desert blast, and smote each wall, "Until it crashing fell, and buried all; "And of that sore destruction, only I "Escap'd the death and ruin, and did fly."

In silence Job arose—his mantle rent,— Then shav'd his head, and to the ground he bent; No murmuring word betray'd the heart that bled, But still his God he own'd; and worshipped. "Naked I to my mother's arms was born, "And naked to the earth shall I return; "The Lord hath given me all, and if His will "Take back his gifts, I bow, and bless Him still.

Thus spake he, nor did foolish charge of blame Escape the sinless lips which bless'd God's holy Name.

Chapter II.

Chapter II.

In heaven return'd again the appointed day, When all the Sons of God in bright array, Themselves presented at the eternal throne; And Satan, too, stood there, the single One Of aspect dark, before the Sovereign Lord, Who deign'd once more to speak the enquiring word;

"Hither, thou evil One, whence art thou come?" Boldly he answered, "From the earth, my home, "Where I have still been wandering up and down, "And to and fro, to reap my harvests sown." Then spake the Lord,—"Hast thou considered well "My servant Job—that none on earth doth dwell "Like him;—who still from evil doth depart, "With upright, perfect, and God-fearing heart? "Still his integrity he holdeth fast, "Though thou hast smitten him with cruel blast, "And thou didst move me causelessly, to prove "The truth of all his faithfulness and love." Thus Satan, dauntless, yet again replied— "In life or limb he hath not yet been tried. "Skin shall be given for skin,—yea, all his wealth "A man will yield to purchase ease and health. "Touch with disease his comeliness and grace, "He will rebel, and curse thee to thy face." Then said the Lord, "Behold him in thy hand; "But that thou spare his life I thee command." Forth from His Presence passed the evil One, And his permitted work of ill begun.

Now smitten with a sore disease, behold The righteous Job, in sufferings yet untold. With wounds and ulcers all his frame o'erspread, No part, from head to foot, from torment freed;— With potsherds fain his skin to purify, And lowly, and apart, in ashes lie.

Then did his wife, in bitterness of heart, Reproach her God, and take the tempter's part. "Still thine integrity dost thou retain? "And all the while thou blessest God in vain,

"For still the more he smites. To life like this, "Sure death through all eternity were bliss; "Then let us curse him, that his vengeful power "May end our sorrows in the self-same hour."

"Woman! thou addest grief unto my woe, "And as the foolish speak, so speakest thou! "Is it for worth of ours, that gracious Heaven "These countless blessings to our lives hath given? "Shall we receive the good His Hand hath sent, "And thankless turn us from His chastisement?" Thus meekly spake he, nor in this was heard To utter rebel thought, or sinful word.

Three of his friends, when they had heard the fame Of Job's afflictions, by appointment came, Each from his several dwelling-place, to cheer His weary hours, and in his mourning share. From Teman, bordering Edom's western side, Eliphaz came, sedate in wisdom's pride; Bildad the Shuite, with his learning's might, And harsh-tongued Zophar, the Naāmathite. But when, whilst yet afar, they rais'd their eyes, And saw him, whom they scarce could recognize, Their voices raised they in a sore lament, And for him wept, and each his garment rent, And dust they sprinkled on their heads tow'rd Heaven, And days and nights, until were number'd seven, They with him speechless sat upon the ground, None daring to disturb such silent grief profound.

Chapter III.

Chapter III.

At length did Job that awful stillness break, And to lament his day he sorrowing spake.

Woe to the day that saw my birth, And when my being first began, When wept the babe its doom of earth As weeps the man.

Let darkness still that day entomb, Unmark'd of God with eye of love; Let not one ray to chase its gloom Shine from above.

Let Death's fell shadow there remain;— Be it to hopeless terror given;— Let blackest clouds its sunlight stain, Unown'd by Heaven.

And let its night still darker be, Its date cut off from all the rest— By years and months, eternally Left unconfest.

No voice of joy shall in it sound, No tones of thankfulness or prayer;— Let those who curse the day, be found Still wailing there.

Letnot its twilight's starry eyes, Or gentle moon bestow their light—

Let dawn of day no more arise To end that night.

Because my course it failed to stay, As stream turn'd to its source again, Nor on life's threshold barr'd my way To care and pain.

Why, on my mother's lap caress'd, Did I not yield my earliest breath, And on her bosom hush'd to rest, Sank not in death?

Oh! then as one unborn doth sleep, Or birth untimely and unknown, I ne'er had wak'd to watch and weep In grief alone.

But still and quiet I had lain, An infant's grave my hidden bed; No sound of earth disturbs again The slumbering dead.

Though kings and counsellors have made Their tombs apart and desolate, Yet there in mingled dust, are laid Both small and great.

There sleeps the prince whose palace hall Was fill'd with gold and silver store; And with him rests the captive thrall— His bondage o'er.

Tyrants and slaves together lie In lowly brotherhood of death, And breathe with stern equality Their latest breath.

There wickedness no more can wound, And there in peace the weary rest;— There no oppressor's voice can sound With tones unblest.

Forever loos'd the prisoner's chain— The bondsman from his master free— And rest doth in the grave remain For all but me.

Oh! Why is light to misery given, And life to souls in bitterness— They who for death have long'd and striven In vain distress.

Yea, more than theirs who delve the earth For hidden wealth, hath been my care; A grave to me were better worth Than jewels rare.

How joyful should I close my eyes, And make the valley clods my bed! For why should light on him arise Whose way is hid?

My God permits me not to move— Hedg'd is my path before, around— Then why, for guidance from above, Should light be found?

Tears are my drink, my food is sighs; Like roaring streams my groans are heard; And I have seen with weeping eyes, All that I fear'd.

'Twas in no confidence of pride I held the gifts of love divine— My heart in fear did still abide While they were mine.

Nor yet in careless rest, nor sloth, Nor impious thought that peace must last,— When sudden fell the bolts of wrath, And all is past!

Chapter IV.

Chapter IV.

Then thus to answer Job Eliphaz sought, And lessons sage from earth and heaven he brought.

If we should commune with thee, wilt thou hear? And will it grieve thy spirit, if we seek To answer thee? For who can long forbear In listening to thy words, their thoughts to speak?

Behold, how long a teacher thou hast been Of many an one less wise, in days gone by— The trembling hands were wont on thee to lean, And ne'er in vain, in thy prosperity.

Thy words like lew refresh'd the sinking heart— Thy succour hath the feeble knees upheld; And ever it hath been they generous part, The weak to strengthen, and the helpless shield,

But now we see thee fainting in the hour When thine own life is touch'd by pain and woe, And fails thy vaunted faith beneath the power Of Him who, chastening, lays thy comforts low.

Where now hath fled thine ancient godly fear? And all th' uprightness of thy former ways? Where do the confidence and hope appear, Which cloth'd thy spirit in its brighter days?

Remember now, if thou canst call to mind, When hath the innocent been left to fall And perish in the way? And canst thou find One righteous soul cut off beyond recall?

The men that in iniquity do plough, (Even as my very eyes have late beheld,) And who in wickedness their seed do sow, Shall likewise reap, as they have sown and till'd.

For they shall perish by God's awful blast, And by His nostril's breath of fire, consume— Broken shall be the lion's teeth at last— The roaring lion's fierceness meet its doom.

Th' old lion's strength shall fail for lack of prey, And his young whelps lie scattered far and wide;— So sinketh the Destroyer in the day When vengeance strikes, to smite him in his pride.

To me hath been disclosed a secret thing, And somewhat of the same hath reached mine ear, When visions of the night strange thoughts do bring, And voices from the spirit-world we hear.

'Twas when on men had fallen slumbers deep, A Presence, not of earth, before me came,— And fear possess'd my senses, though in sleep;— My hair stood up, and terror shook my frame.

It pass'd before my face, and then was still— Mine eyes beheld it, yet no shape was there; But through that silence deep, a voice did fill With solemn sound, the hush'd and listening air.

"Before his Maker—God, shall man be just? "More pure than He shall mortal man appear? "Behold! His servants He refus'd to trust, "Nor e'en from folly held His angels clear.

"Then how much less in man shall He confide, "Whose clay-built dwellings on the dust he rears? "Frail as the moth, he sinks ere even-tide, "And none regardeth when he disappears.

"His boasted excellence hath with him fled; "His wisdom lasts not to his dying day:"— Such were the words that warning spirit said Again I gaz'd—and it had pass'd away.

Chapter V.

Chapter V.

Eliphaz Continues.

Ask now, if there be one to speak again, If there be any saint to hear thy call;— For by a little wrath the fool is slain; If envy smite him, he is sure to fall.

I mark'd his dwelling, fix'd in earthly state, But suddenly I saw a curse was there;— Crush'd are his children in the crowded gate; In danger still, none saves them from the snare.

The substance of the foolish taketh wings; For harvest time his hunger cannot stay; His corn is pluck'd ere from the thorns it springs; His wealth, unwatch'd, becomes the robber's prey.

For though our sorrow springeth not from earth, Nor doth affliction from the dust arise, Yet man is heir to trouble from his birth, As surely as the fire-spark upward flies,

Then unto God my heart would seek alone, And unto God would I commit my cause, Whose mighty power, unsearchable, unknown, His wondrous and unnumber'd works disclose.

Upon the thirsting earth His rain descends; Upon the fields His cooling fountains flow;—

With chastisement His saving mercy blends, And him He raiseth who is meekly low.

He snares the crafty by his own device, And into headlong ruin turns his way— Thus his own counsels for his loss suffice, And bring night's darkness on his brightest day.

But from the hurtful sword He saves the poor, And shields him from oppression and from wrong, That he may rest in hope, and dread no more The tyrant's iron hand—the scorner's tongue.

Despise not, then, the Almighty's chastening, For happy is the man who feels his rod;— The Hand that wounds doth balm and healing bring, And for deliv'rance thou mayst trust thy God.

He bindeth up the sore and broken heart— From six-fold troubles He shall set thee free— Yea, from the seventh, unharm'd shalt thou depart, Nor famine nor the sword shall light on thee.

For He will shield thee in the battle strife, No evil tongue's fell blighting shalt thou dread;— He from all peril will redeem thy life, Nor famine nor destruction thou shalt heed.

The stony ground beneath thine hand shall yield ; The savage beasts shall own thy gentle sway, And from their haunts of desert and of field, Shall, peaceful and unfear'd, around thee stray.

From thine affliction thou shalt wisdom learn, And life shall brighten with thy years' increase; Thou sinless shalt go forth, and so return— And in thy tabernacle shall be peace.

Thine offspring multiplied thine eyes shall see, As grass that clothes the plain, both great and blest;— Like as the ripened corn thine age shall be, Till, crown'd with years, thou gently sink to rest.

Lo! these are truths which we have searched and known, Whereof the wisdom we have understood;— Hear thou the lessons—take them for thine own;— Such is our counsel—know it for thy good.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VI.

But harsh reproof, and wisdom's words of rote, To Job's far deeper need no solace brought; And thus himself to justify he sought:—

Oh that my grief were rightly weigh'd, And that my sore calamity Were with it in the balance laid,— Then would it heavier seem to be Than sands, the ocean tides that bound, And all too weak my words be found.

The arrows of the Almighty sink Deep, deep, within my fainting soul; Their poison doth my spirit drink; Whilst o'er me as a flood do roll

His terrors, and around me stand, In dark array, on every hand.

Hear'st thou the wild ass fretful cry When he with grass is satisfied? Or doth the ox low causelessly When all his need is well supplied? If mine again were ease and peace, Like theirs would my complainings cease.

Unsavoury food man doth not choose; The egg's clear white hath little taste; But what my soul did once refuse, Hath now become my sorrowing feast. From me the salt of life is gone, And that I loath'd is left alone.

Oh that my God would hear my prayer, And grant my longing heart's request; Ev'n that no more his hand would spare The life whose strength and joy have ceas'd. Comfort in hope I then should find, And sorrow bear with firmer mind.

For what are days of added length, That I should strive their course to hold? Have I of stones the harden'd strength? Or is my flesh of brazen mould? Yet though no help in me is left, Am I of wisdom quite bereft?

The man who pitieth not his friend When in affliction drooping laid,

And scorneth whom he should defend, From him the fear of God is fled; Ev'n of the Holy One, whose word My lips concealed not when I heard.

Like as the brook's deceitful stream, My brethren's love is past and gone; When dark with frost that brook did seem, Or in a snow-robe pure it shone, What eye that mark'd its course, could fear Its depth to last, or strength to bear?

But Summer's fierce and scorching breath, And its hot noon-tide sudden come; The ice is gone—the streams beneath All swiftly vanish and consume; The traveller seeks their path in vain,— They perish in the parched plain.

The troops of Tema eager came, And waited Sheba's thirsting host, Then turn'd them back again, with shame For hope deceiv'd, and labour lost. Thus I, like them, in vain did trust, And thus have found you nought but dust.

Ye fear me, and reproach my pain, Since ye have seen me lowly laid, Yet nought from you I sought to gain, Nor claim upon your substance made; Nor asked for ransom from your store, Nor rescue from the Foe-man's power.

Teach me, and I will hold my peace, For powerful is the fitting word— Beneath its force mine own shall cease, When you can show where I have err'd. But ye, by arguing, strive in vain, To prove me false when I complain.

To note the words of bitterness, And weigh the ravings of despair, Is to o'erwhelm the Fatherless, And for your Friend a pit prepare. A judgment just and spirit kind, Would deem such speech as empty wind.

Then be content to turn your eyes On what I am beneath your view; A single glance might well suffice To show me false, or prove me true. My righteousness I hold too dear, Reproach and doubt like yours to bear.

I pray you, turn and pity me, And from your bitterness relent; Nor charge to mine iniquity, The weight of all this chastisement. Can I not taste what savoureth ill? And things perverse distinguish still?

Chapter VII.

Chapter VII.

Job Continues.

Is there not unto man decreed A warfare for his earthly way, And to his span of life a meed, Ev'n as the hireling's measur'd day? And can I fail to watch and sigh Till my deliverance draweth nigh?

The wearied Bondsman, earnestly Desires the evening's closing hour, And marks the shadows silently Steal on, and lengthen more and more, And joyful hails the signal blest Of wages earn'd, and coming rest.

But all my months are vanity, And weary nights to me are given, When tossing on my bed I lie, And ask for dawn while yet 'tis even. Foul worms and dust are made my dress, And all my skin is loathsomeness.

More swiftly than the weaver's art Can throw his shuttle through the loom, My days arise and so depart, And still they hopelessly consume. No more of good mine eye shall find In life as empty as the wind.

He that hath seen, shall cease to see My mortal form,—mine earthly frame; I, as a thing of nought, shall be Lost in the dust from whence I came. One moment thou hast seen me here— Thine eyes behold—I disappear!

As vanisheth the cloud away, And in the breeze doth swift consume, He whom the grave hath made its prey, From its dark depths no more shall come. He to his house returneth never, And from his place hath pass'd forever.

And therefore do I still complain, And in my spirit's anguish speak; Nor shall my mouth its words refrain, But still my woe shall utterance seek. My soul its bitterness shall pour, Nor cease to grieve till life be o'er.

Am I then like the raging sea, Or dreaded monster of the deep, That all around Thou boundest me, And constant watch dost o'er me keep? I would that death might end the strife, And strangling rather choose than life.

When on my couch I seek to rest, And hope for ease and comfort there; With terror is my sleep possest, And fearful dreams my spirit scare. Such life I loathe—oh let me die! For all my days are vanity.

What is the worth of man, that Thou Should'st on him turn Almighty Power, To magnify, or lay him low, And thus pursue from hour to hour? That Thou should'st every moment try, Nor night nor morning, pass him by?

How long, then, wilt Thou not depart, Nor ev'n to swallow leave me free? Preserver of mankind Thou art,— Why am I made a mark for Thee? So that myself, and my despair, Are burdens more than I can bear.

If I have sinn'd, yet pardon Thou, And blot out mine iniquity— For unto Thee what can I do? Since in the dust I soon must lie; When morning dawns o'er land and sea, And Thou dost seek—I shall not be.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter VIII.

Then did his turn the learned Bildad take, And thus to answer Job, the Shuite spake.

To things that from thy mouth we hear How long shall listeners be found? When wilt thou cease thyself to clear In words that like a tempest sound?

A judgment just doth God pervert? Or justice doth the Almighty scorn? If upright and if pure thou wert, Would He not from His anger turn?

Though for their sins against high Heaven Thy children perish'd in a day,— For their transgressions forth were driven, And from His Presence cast away:

If thou wouldst supplication make, And lift to God betimes thy prayer, He surely would for thee awake, And make thy righteousness His care.

Thine habitation He would bless, And safe and prosperous thou shouldst be; And in thy latter days' encrease Small should the former seem to thee.

I pray thee now thyself prepare To search the Fathers, who did dwell In earlier times;—they shall declare All that the primal age can tell.

Whilst we are but of yesterday, And nothing have we seen or known, For as the shadow melts away, Our days on earth are swiftly gone.

But these shall teach thee, and their word From out of hearts both true and sage, Which generations past have heard, Doth bear the weight and worth of age.

Its leaves can the papyrus shoot Transplanted from its oozy bed? Or grows the bulrush, if its root Be not with water nourished?

Whilst yet those leaves in greenness spring, Or ere mown down, they lowly lie, Their moisture dries, and withering, Before all other herbs they die.

So perisheth the Hypocrite;— So doth his sinful hope decay,— So vanish they who God forget, Their paths cut off—destroy'd their way.

The sinner on his house shall lean,— Weak as the spider's web his trust,— To hold it fast he strives in vain;— It falls and crumbles into dust.

As grows the tree, his branches shoot, Before the sun all freshly green;— The garden sees his sinewy root Wrapp'd round the stones, and rocks between.

But soon destroy'd, that very place Shall ev'n his memory disown,— Shall straight deny his every trace, And answer—"thee I have not known."

Behold! God will not cast away The perfect man whom He doth lead,— Nor will He prove the sinner's stay, To aid him in his evil deed.

He will, if thou dost patient wait, With laughter fill thy mouth, and joy, And those who envy thee and hate With shame will cover and destroy.

Chapter IX.

Chapter IX.

To these old maxims stor'd in Bildad's head, Job meekly gave assent, and answering said,

I know it of a truth; But how should man with God be counted just? Frail both in age and youth, With him how shall he strive who is but dust? How for his thousand sins shall he atone, Or to his God make answer, e'en for one?

Wise as He is in heart, And mighty in His strength, who shall contend, Or with a rebel's part, Against His judgment shall himself defend? He prospereth not, who doth His power withstand, And strive with hardened will against His Hand.

He doth the hills o'erthrow, (Though Him they know not) in His power and wrath. Earth's pillars trembling bow, When He doth stoop to shake her in her path. The sun ariseth not if He command— The stars are sealèd by His sovereign Hand.

Alone the Heavens He spreadeth, And the cloud-chambers raiseth, of the south. The ocean heights He treadeth; And in their splendour of unfading youth, Hath made Arcturus, and Orion bright, And the soft Pleiades with gentler light.

Wonderous the things He doeth, Countless in number and past finding out. By me, unseen, He goeth— He passeth on, but I perceive Him not. Who shall prevent when He doth take away? What doest Thou? who unto Him shall say?

When the proud Helpers stoop Beneath His anger, if it be not stay'd, What then can be my hope In fitting words, with Him, my Judge, to plead? Of whom, if e'en my righteousness were known, Unanswering, I should mercy ask alone.

And if He then should speak, That He should answer me, could I believe, When He my strength doth break, With tempests, and with causeless wounds doth grieve? Nor will He suffer that I draw my breath, But fills me with the bitterness of death.

If I of strength would speak, Lo! He is strong, and Infinite in Power;— Or judgment—who would seek My cause to plead, or fix its fitting hour? And should I strive myself to justify, My very words would their own truth belie.

I should perverseness show If to perfection I should make pretence; Nor mine own soul could know, If daring to assert mine innocence. And were I even righteous found, and pure, My life I still should scorn, nor count it sure.

But one thing have I known, And therefore spoken;—that the sword doth strike Not on the vile alone, But on the evil and the good alike. The trial of the Just He doth not stay, Nor hindereth when the sword doth sudden slay.