Shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his Maker?

For he maketh sore, and bindeth up; He woundeth, and his hands make whole.

Yea, ye would cast lots upon the fatherless, And make merchandise of your friend.

If thou wouldest seek diligently unto God, And make thy supplication to the Almighty;

If thou wert pure and upright: Surely now he would awake for thee, And make the habitation of thy righteousness prosperous.

Whom, though I were righteous, yet would I not answer; I would make supplication to my judge.

If I wash myself with snow water, And make my hands never so clean;

Let him take his rod away from me, And let not his terror make me afraid:

Should thy boastings make men hold their peace? And when thou mockest, shall no man make thee ashamed?

Also thou shalt lie down, and none shall make thee afraid; Yea, many shall make suit unto thee.

Shall not his majesty make you afraid, And his dread fall upon you?

Withdraw thy hand far from me; And let not thy terror make me afraid.

How many are mine iniquities and sins? Make me to know my transgression and my sin.

Should a wise man make answer with vain knowledge, And fill himself with the east wind?

Distress and anguish make him afraid; They prevail against him, as a king ready to the battle.

Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, And shall chase him at his heels.

Thou shalt make thy prayer unto him, and he will hear thee; And thou shalt pay thy vows.

They make oil within the walls of these men; They tread their winepresses, and suffer thirst.

And if it be not so now, who will prove me a liar, And make my speech nothing worth?

Those that remain of him shall be buried in death, And his widows shall make no lamentation.

To make a weight for the wind: Yea, he meteth out the waters by measure.

Did not he that made me in the womb make him? And did not one fashion us in the womb?

For I know not to give flattering titles; Else would my Maker soon take me away.

Behold, my terror shall not make thee afraid, Neither shall my pressure be heavy upon thee.

But none saith, Where is God my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night,

I will fetch my knowledge from afar, And will ascribe righteousness to my Maker.

Will he make many supplications unto thee? Or will he speak soft words unto thee?

Will he make a covenant with thee, That thou shouldest take him for a servant for ever?

Will the bands of fishermen make traffic of him? Will they part him among the merchants?

The arrow cannot make him flee: Sling-stones are turned with him into stubble.