What use can man be to God—
even the wisest of men?
Does God profit from your goodness
or gain by your perfect conduct?
Would he sentence you for your piety
or punish you for your faith?
Your guilt must be great indeed;
your crimes must be inconceivable.
You cheated your dearest friends,
stripped your debtors naked,
stole food from the hungry,
let the destitute starve,
spat on widow and orphan,
laughed in the beggar’s face.
That is why pain surrounds you
and sudden terror has struck you.
Light is turned to darkness,
and the waves close over your head.
Since God is far up in heaven,
higher than the highest stars,
you thought, “What does he know?
Can he see through the thicket of clouds?
How can he judge my actions,
as he walks on the rim of the sky?”
Why do you keep on sinning,
as the wicked have always done?
They were cut off before their time;
they were swept away in a flood.
For they told God, “Leave us alone;
don’t meddle in our affairs.”
The righteous saw and were happy;
the innocent laughed at their fall.
Everything they had was destroyed,
and all their riches vanished.
Come now: make peace with God;
make peace: you will not be sorry.
Listen to his instructions;
keep his words in your heart.
If you humble yourself before him
and banish sin from your house,
treating your gold like dust,
your silver like worthless pebbles,
then God will become your treasure,
more precious than the finest gold.
For then you will trust in God
and look to heaven for help.
You will pray, and he will hear you;
he will grant whatever you wish.
Everything you do will succeed,
and light will shine on your path.
For he does not abandon the innocent;
if you are pure, he will save you.
Still my condition is desperate;
his fist still beats on my skull.
If only I knew where to meet him
and could find my way to his court.
I would argue my case before him;
words would flow from my mouth.
I would counter all his arguments
and disprove his accusations.
Would he try to overpower me
or refuse to hear my defense?
Surely he would listen to reason;
I would surely win my case.
For he knows that I am innocent;
if he sifts me I will shine like gold.
My feet have walked on his way
and never strayed from his path.
I have kept all his commandments,
treasuring his words in my heart.
But he wills, and who can stop him?
What he wishes to do, he does.
He will go ahead with his plans,
devising my endless torment.
That is why terror grips me;
when I think of it, I am appalled.
He has wrung the strength from my mind
and pumped my heart full with sorrow.
Yet I am not silenced by darkness
or the night that covers my face.
Where are the days of judgment,
the times when the wicked are tried?
They steal land from their neighbors
and walk away with their flocks.
They drive off the orphan’s donkey,
impound the widow’s bull.
They push the weak from the pathway
and force the wretched to hide.
The poor, like herds of cattle,
wander across the plains,
searching all day for food,
picking up scraps for their children.
Naked, without a refuge,
they shiver in the bitter cold.
When it rains, they are drenched to the bone;
they huddle together in caves.
They carry grain for the wicked
and break their backs for the rich.
They press olives and starve,
crush grapes and go thirsty.
In the city the dying groan
and the wounded cry out for help;
but God sees nothing wrong.
At twilight the killer appears,
stalking his helpless victim.
The rapist waits for evening
and roams through the darkened streets.
The thief crawls from the shadows
with a hood pulled over his face.
They shut themselves in by day
and hate the sight of the sun.
Midnight to them is morning;
they thrive in the terrors of night.
How can a man be pure
or a son of woman be sinless?
If God despises the moon
and thinks that the stars are tainted,
what about man, that worm,
that vile, stinking maggot?
Power belongs to God,
who makes peace in heaven.
Can his vast battalions be numbered?
Who can escape his onslaught?
The dead tremble beneath him;
demons shudder at his name.
The pit is naked before him;
below him the grave gapes wide.
He stretched the sky over chaos;
he hung the earth in the void.
He wrapped the waters in rainclouds,
and they did not burst from the weight.
He set the horizon there,
at the boundary of light and darkness.
The pillars of heaven trembled;
the mountains shook at his rage.
With his power he bound the Sea;
with his cunning he crushed the Dragon.
He shattered the Ocean with his breath
and pierced the primeval Serpent.
These are the least of his works:
we hear no more than a whisper;
for who knows his thunderous might?
How kind you all have been to me!
How considerate of my pain!
What would I do without you
and the good advice you have given?
Who has made you so tactful
and inspired such compassionate words?
I swear by God, who has wronged me
and filled my cup with despair,
that while there is life in this body
and as long as I can breathe,
I will never let you convict me;
I will never give up my claim.
I will hold tight to my innocence;
my mind will never submit.
What can the sinner hope for
when God demands his life?
Is he able to trust in God
and cry out to him at that moment?
Will God be moved by his screaming
as death takes him by the throat?
This is the sinner’s fate,
the violent man’s reward:
Famine devours his daughters;
his sons are murdered by thieves.
He may heap up silver like dirt,
pile up the finest linen,
but the righteous inherit his wealth
and the innocent share his possessions.
His house is frail as a bird’s nest,
weak as a watchman’s hut.
He goes to sleep a rich man;
when he wakes up, his room is bare.
Waves of terror flood over him;
panic sweeps him away.
The east wind flings itself on him,
whirls him out of his bed,
claps its hands around him
and whistles him off in the dark.