Job reproaches his merciless friends
							
																								
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									And Job answers and says:
								
							 
																								
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									“I have heard many such things, || Miserable comforters [are] you all.
								
							 
																								
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									Is there an end to words of wind? Or what emboldens you that you answer?
								
							 
																								
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									I also, like you, might speak, || If your soul were in my soul’s stead. I might join against you with words, || And nod at you with my head.
								
							 
																								
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									I might harden you with my mouth, || And the moving of my lips might be sparing.
								
							 
																								
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									If I speak, my pain is not restrained, || And I cease—what goes from me?
								
							 
																								
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									Only, now, it has wearied me; You have desolated all my company,
								
							 
																								
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									And You loathe me, || For it has been a witness, || And my failure rises up against me, || It testifies in my face.
								
							 
																								
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									His anger has torn, and He hates me, || He has gnashed at me with His teeth, || My adversary sharpens His eyes for me.
								
							 
																								
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									They have gaped on me with their mouth, || In reproach they have struck my cheeks, || Together they set themselves against me.
								
							 
																								
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									God shuts me up to the perverse, || And turns me over to the hands of the wicked.
								
							 
																								
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									I have been at ease, and He breaks me, || And He has laid hold on my neck, || And He breaks me in pieces, || And He raises me to Him for a mark.
								
							 
																								
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									His archers go around against me. He split my reins, and does not spare, || He pours out my gall to the earth.
								
							 
																								
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									He breaks me—breach on breach, || He runs on me as a mighty one.
								
							 
																								
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									I have sewed sackcloth on my skin, || And have rolled my horn in the dust.
								
							 
																								
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									My face is foul with weeping, || And on my eyelids [is] death-shade.
								
							 
																								
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									Not for violence in my hands, || And my prayer [is] pure.
								
							 
																								
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									O earth, do not cover my blood! And let there not be a place for my cry.
								
							 
																								
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									Also, now, behold, my witness [is] in the heavens, || And my testifier in the high places.
								
							 
																								
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									My interpreter [is] my friend, || My eye has dropped to God;
								
							 
																								
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									And He reasons for a man with God, || As a son of man for his friend.
								
							 
																								
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									When a few years come, || Then I go [on] the path of no return.”
								
							 
																						
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