For sorrow cometh not forth from the dust, Nor from the ground springeth up misery.

Who is giving rain on the face of the land, And is sending waters on the out-places.

Doing great things, and there is no searching. Wonderful, till there is no numbering.

To set the low on a high place, And the mourners have been high in safety.

Making void thoughts of the subtile, And their hands do not execute wisdom.

And He saveth the wasted from their mouth, And from a strong hand the needy,

Capturing the wise in their subtilty, And the counsel of wrestling ones was hastened,

By day they meet darkness, And as night -- they grope at noon.

And there is hope to the poor, And perverseness hath shut her mouth.

For He doth pain, and He bindeth up, He smiteth, and His hands heal.

At destruction and at hunger thou mockest, And of the beast of the earth, Thou art not afraid.

Pray, call, is there any to answer thee? And unto which of the holy ones dost thou turn?

For provocation slayeth the perverse, And envy putteth to death the simple,

When the tongue scourgeth thou art hid, And thou art not afraid of destruction, When it cometh.

(For with sons of the field is thy covenant, And the beast of the field Hath been at peace with thee.)

And thou hast known that thy tent is peace, And inspected thy habitation, and errest not,

In famine He hath redeemed thee from death, And in battle from the hands of the sword.

Thou comest in full age unto the grave, As the going up of a stalk in its season.

Whose harvest the hungry doth eat, And even from the thorns taketh it, And the designing swallowed their wealth.

And hast known that numerous is Thy seed, And thine offspring as the herb of the earth;

I -- I have seen the perverse taking root, And I mark his habitation straightway,

Lo, this -- we searched it out -- it is right, hearken; And thou, know for thyself!

Far are his sons from safety, And they are bruised in the gate, And there is no deliverer.

Lo, the happiness of mortal man, God doth reprove him: And the chastisement of the Mighty despise not,

For man to misery is born, And the sparks go high to fly.

In six distresses He delivereth thee, And in seven evil striketh not on thee.

Yet I -- I inquire for God, And for God I give my word,