Then Job took a piece of broken pottery to scrape himself while he sat among the ashes.

The lion may roar and the fierce lion growl,
but the fangs of young lions are broken.

My spirit is broken.
My days are extinguished.
A graveyard awaits me.

The womb forgets them;
worms feed on them;
they are remembered no more.
So injustice is broken like a tree.

Light is withheld from the wicked,
and the arm raised in violence is broken.

Will traders bargain for him
or divide him among the merchants?