Does a wise man spout such nonsense
and fill his belly with gas?
Does he blurt out useless arguments,
words that can do no good?
You are undermining religion
and crippling faith in God.
Sin has seduced your mind;
your tongue flaps with deceit.
Your mouth condemns you, not I;
your own lips testify against you.
Are you the first man to be born,
created before the mountains?
Have you listened in at God’s keyhole
and crept away with his plans?
What do you know that we don’t?
What have you seen that we haven’t?
We are old; our beards are white;
we speak with the wisdom of age.
Will you scorn religion’s comforts
and reject our indulgent advice?
What has taken hold of you?
What has made you so wild
that you spew your anger at God
and spit out such insolent words?
What is man—is he pure?
Can a son of woman be sinless?
If God mistrusts his angels
and heaven stinks in his nose,
what of that vermin, man,
who laps up filth like water?
Listen now to my words;
I will tell you what I have seen—
what the sages too have said
and the wise have never kept hidden:
The wicked man’s life is a torment;
his days are anguish and pain.
In his ear is the voice of terror;
in his mouth is the taste of death.
He flees from darkness to darkness;
he is marked for the edge of the sword.
His body is food for vultures;
disaster nibbles his flesh.
Anguish pounds at his mind;
fear and panic assault him,
like a soldier before a battle.
For he shook his fist at God
and dared to revolt against him,
charging at him headlong
behind the spikes of his shield.
Though his face was plump and cheerful
and his thighs bulged with health,
he lives in a desolate city
and sleeps in an empty room.
All his works have decayed;
his roots have rotted in the ground.
The sun withered his shoots;
his blossoms fell in the wind.
His leaves shriveled and died;
all his branches are bare.
He was stripped of his grapes like a vine
and dropped his buds like an olive tree.
For the fate of the wicked is barren,
and his hopes are consumed by fire.
His womb is heavy with suffering;
he gives birth to sorrow and pain.
Enough —I have heard enough!
I am sick of your consolations!
How long will you pelt me with insults?
Will your malice never relent?
I too could say such things
if you were in my position:
I could bury you with accusations
and sneer at you in my piety;
or whisper my easy comfort
and encourage you with a word.
But I speak, and my pain keeps raging;
I am silent, and have no relief.
For disaster has worn me out,
and suffering has made me wither.
In his rage he hunted and caught me;
he cracked my bones in his teeth.
I was whole—he ripped me apart,
chewed my body to pulp.
He set me up as a target;
his arrows tore through my flesh.
He hacked my liver to pieces;
he poured my gall on the ground.
He besieged me like a fortress;
he demolished my inmost walls.
I have wrapped my skin in sackcloth
and laid my head in the dust.
My face is swollen from weeping;
shadows circle my eyes—
although my hands are spotless
and the prayer of my heart is pure.
O Earth, do not cover my blood!
Never let my cry be buried!
For I have a witness in heaven,
a spokesman above the clouds.
May he judge between mortal and God
as he would between man and neighbor.
For grief has darkened my eyes;
my body is like a shadow.
My days fade like an echo;
the strings of my heart have snapped.
And soon my life will vanish;
I will walk down into the dust.
I have taken the pit as my home
and made my bed in the dark.
I have called the grave my father;
the worm my mother, my sister.
And where now is my hope?
My piety—who will see it?
It will follow me to the grave
and lie in the dust beside me.
How long will you lay these word-snares?
Be sensible: then we will talk.
Why do you treat us like morons
and act as if we were cows?
Should the earth be changed for your sake
and mountains move at your bidding?
It is true: the sinner is snuffed out;
his candle flickers and dies.
His arrogant steps are hobbled;
he is tripped by his own deceit.
A net catches his legs;
he stumbles into a pit.
His heels stick in a trap;
a noose snaps his neck.
The terrors of death surround him
and make him piss in his pants.
Misfortune hungers after him;
disaster waits at his side.
Sickness gnaws his flesh;
death picks his bones.
Fire guts his house;
sulphur rains on his fields.
All his roots are withered;
all his branches are bare.
He disappears from the earth;
not a trace is left behind him.
He is thrown into endless darkness
and locked out of the world.
At his fate the East is appalled,
and terror grips the West.
This is what happens to the godless;
this is the sinner’s doom.
How long will you make me suffer
and crush my heart with your words?
Again and again you mock me
and wrong me with shameless lies.
Do you think I have lost my mind?
Am I the one who is raving?
Are you sure that you have convicted me
and justified my disgrace?
No—because God has tricked me,
and lured me into his trap.
I call, but there is no answer;
I cry out, and where is justice?
He made my road impassable,
covered my path with darkness,
stripped me of my honor,
knocked the crown from my head.
He broke me, rooted me up,
left me in little pieces.
His anger set me on fire;
his hatred burned me to ashes.
All my friends have forgotten me;
my neighbors have thrown me away.
My relatives look through me
as though I didn’t exist.
My servants refuse to hear me;
they shun me like a leper.
My breath sickens my wife;
my stench disgusts my brothers.
Even young children fear me;
when they see me, they run away.
My dearest friends despise me;
I have lost everyone I love.
Have pity on me, my friends,
for God’s fist has struck me.
Why must you hunt me as God does?
Why do you gnaw my flesh?
If only my cry were recorded
and my plea inscribed on a tablet—
carved with an iron stylus,
chiseled in rock forever.
Someday my witness would come;
my avenger would read those words.
He would plead for me in God’s court;
he would stand up and vindicate my name.
My mind is seething with anger,
and rage drives me to speak.
I have heard enough of your insults;
you answer our wisdom with lies.
Haven’t you realized yet
(How can you be so blind!)
that the sinner’s joy is brief
and lasts no more than a moment?
Though he rises as high as heaven
and his forehead touches the clouds,
he will drop to the ground like dung
and rot like a fallen fruit.
He flies away like a vision,
vanishes like a dream.
His friends do not give him a thought;
his children forget his name.
His body may pulse with vigor,
but soon he will lie in the dust.
Though crime was sweet on his lips
and evil melted in his mouth,
though he tried to keep its flavor
and hold its taste on his tongue,
the food that he swallowed turns
to poison inside his belly.
He chews the head of a viper,
sucks the tongue of a snake.
He loses his vats of oil;
his cream and honey are spilled.
He is forced to spit up his riches
and vomit out all his wealth.
For he crushed the weak and the helpless;
he pushed the poor from their huts.
His hunger gave him no rest;
he was driven by his desire;
nothing escaped his greed:
therefore his wealth will vanish.
At the height of his fortune he falls;
every disaster strikes him.
The wrath of God assaults him;
calamities rain on his head.
Total darkness engulfs him;
fire from heaven consumes him.
Storms demolish his fields;
floods sweep away his house.
Heaven reveals his guilt,
and earth rises against him.
This is the fate of the sinner;
this is the rebel’s reward.
Listen now to my words;
let that be the comfort you give me.
Bear with me: let me speak;
when I finish, then you can laugh.
Is my grievance against a man?
Why shouldn’t I be impatient?
Look at me: be appalled;
clap your hands to your mouths.
When I think of it I am terrified
and horror chills my flesh.
Why do the wicked prosper
and live to a ripe old age?
Their children stand beside them;
their grandchildren sit on their laps.
Their houses are safe from danger,
secure from the wrath of God.
Not one of their bulls is impotent;
not one of their cows miscarries.
Their grandchildren run out to play,
skipping about like lambs,
singing to drum and lyre,
dancing to the sound of the flute.
They end their lives in prosperity
and go to the grave in peace.
Yet they tell God, “Leave us alone;
we can’t be bothered about you.
Why should we pray to God?
What good will it do us to serve you?”
Is the lamp of the sinner snuffed out?
Does misfortune knock on his door?
Is he really driven like chaff,
blown like straw in the wind?
Is calamity saved for his children?
Let him have his punishment now!
Let his own eyes see disaster!
Let him choke on the wrath of God!
For what does he care about others
when his own life comes to an end?
One man dies serenely,
lapped in safety and comfort,
his thighs bulging with fat,
the marrow moist in his bones.
Another dies in despair,
his life bitter on his tongue.
But both men rot in the ground,
and maggots chew on them both.
I know what you are thinking,
the lies you have slapped together.
You say, “But where is the rich man?
Show us the homes of the wicked!”
Haven’t you talked with travelers?
Don’t you know from their tales
that the sinner escapes destruction
and is spared on the day of wrath?
No one condemns his sins
or punishes him for his crimes.
He is carried with pomp to the graveyard;
thousands weep by his coffin.
He is tucked into the earth,
and flowers bloom on his grave.
How hollow then is your comfort!
Your answers are empty lies.