My soul hath refused to touch, Those things, are like disease in my food.

That it would please GOD to crush me, That he would set free his hand, and cut me off!

Oh that my request would come! and, my hope, oh that GOD would grant!

The despairing, from his friend, should have lovingkindness, or, the reverence of the Almighty, he may forsake.

Is there any help at all in me? Is not, abiding success, driven from me?

The caravans of Tema looked about, the travelling companies of Sheba, hoped for them:

So might it still be my comfort, And I might exult in the anguish he would not spare, - That I had not concealed the sayings of the Holy One.

What is my strength, that I should hope? Or what mine end, that I should prolong my desire?

Is my strength, the strength of stones? Or is, my flesh, of bronze?

Mine own brethren, have proved treacherous like a torrent, like a channel of torrents which disappear:

Can that which hath no savour be eaten without salt? Or is there any taste in the white of an egg?

For, the arrows of the Almighty, are in me, The heat whereof, my spirit is drinking up, The, terrors of GOD, array themselves against me.

Then responded Job, and said: -

Show me, and, I, will hold my peace, And, wherein I have erred, cause me to understand.

Which darken by reason of the cold, over them, is a covering made by the snow:

For, now, ye have come to him, ye see something fearful, and fear.

Is it that I said, Make me a gift, or, out of your abundance, offer a bribe on my behalf;

Doth the wild ass bray over grass? Or loweth the ox over his fodder?

By the time they begin to thaw, they are dried up, as soon as it is warm, they have vanished out of their place.

Oh that, weighed, were my vexation, and, my engulfing ruin - into the balances, they would lift up all at once!

For, now, beyond the sand of the seas, would it be heavy, On this account, my words, have wandered.

Caravans turn aside by their course, they go up into a waste, and are lost:

Surely, the fatherless, ye would assail, and make merchandise of your friend!

How pleasant are the sayings that are right! But what can a decision from you, decide?

They are ashamed that they had trusted, They have come up to one of them, and are confounded.

And deliver me from the hand of the adversary? And, out of the hand of tyrants, ransom me?

To decide words, do ye intend, When, to the wind, are spoken the sayings of one in despair?

Is there, in my tongue, perversity? Or can, my sense, not discern, engulfing ruin?

But, now, be pleased to turn to me, that it may be, to your faces, if I speak falsehood,

Reply, I pray you, let there be no perversity, Yea reply even yet, my vindication is in it!