Iob Militant: Section 9

Bildad, mans either state expresses,
Gods Mercy and Iustice Iob confesses;
He pleads his cause, and begs reliefe,
Foild with the burthen of his griefe.

SO Bildads silence (great with tongue) did breake,
And, like a heartlesse Comforter did speake:
How long wilt thou persist to breathe thy minde
In words that vanish as a storme of winde;
Will God forsake the innocnt, or will
His Iustice smite thee, undeserving ill?
Though righteous death thy sinfull sons hath rent
From thy sad bosome, yet if thou repent,
And wash thy wayes with undissembled teares,
Tuning thy troubles to th' Almighties eares,
The mercy of his eyes shall shine upon thee:
And shoure the sweetnesse of his blessings on thee:
And though a while thou plunge in misery,
At length heel crowne thee with prosperity:
Run backe, and earne of sage Antiquity,
What our late births, to present times, deny,
See how, and what (in the worlds downy age)
Befell our Fathers in their Pilgrimage;
If Rushes have no mire, and Grasse no raine,
They cease to flourish, droop their heads, waine:
So fades the man whose heart is not upright,
So perisheth the double Hypocrite;
His hopes are like the Spiders web, to day
That's flourishing, to morrow swept away:
But he that's just is like the flowting tree,
Rooted by Chrystall Springs, that cannot be
Scorcht by the noone of day, nor stird from thence,
Where, firmely fixt, it hath a residence;
Heavennever failes the soule that is upright,
Nor offers arme to the base Hyporite:
The one, he blesses with eternall joyes,
The other, his avenging hand destroyes.
I yeeld it for a truth, (sad Iob reply'd)
Compar'd with God, can man be justifi'd?
If man should give account what he hath done,
Not of a thousand can he answer one:
His hand's all-Power, and his heart all pure,
Against this God, what man can stand secure?
He shakes the Mounaines, and the Sun he barres
From circling his due course, shuts up the Starres,
He spreades the Heavens, and rideth on the Flood,
His workes may be admir'd, not understood:
No eye can see, no heart can apprehend him:
Lists he to spoile? what's he can reprehen hm?
His Will's his Law. The smoothest pleader hath
No power in his lips, to slake his Wrath,
Much lesse can I pleade faire immunity,
Which could my guiltlesse tongue attaine, yet I
Would kisse the Footstep of his Iudgement-seat:
Should he receive my cry, my griefe's so great,
It would perswade me, that he heard it not,
For he hath torne me with the five-fold knot
Of his sharpe Scourge, his plagues successive are,
That I can finde no ground, but of Despaire.
If my old lips should dare to justifie
My selfe, my lips would give my lips the lye.
God owes his mercy, nor to good, nor bad;
The wicked oft he spares, and oft does adde
Griefe to the just mans griefe, woes after woes;
We must not judge man, as his Market goes.
But might my prayers obtaine this boone, that God
Would cease those sorrowes, and remove that Rod,
Which moves my patience; I would take upon me,
T'implead before him, your rash judgement on me,
Because my tender Conscience doth perswade mee,
I'me not so bad, as your bad Words have made me.
My life is tedious, my distresse shall breake
Into her proper Voyce, my griefes shall speake;
(Iust udge of Earth) condemne me not, before
Thou please to make me understand wherefore
Agrees it with thy Iustice, thus to be
Kinde to the wicked, and so harsh to Me?
Seest thou with fleshly eyes? or doe they glance
By favour? Are they clos'd with Ignorance?
Liv'st thou the life of man? Dost thou desire
A space of time to search, or to enquire
My sinne? No, in the twinkling of an eye
Thou seest my heart, seest my Immunity
From those foule crimes, wherewith my friends at pleasure
Taxe me, yet thou afflict'st me, in this Measure:
Thy hands have form'd, and fram'd me, what I am,
Whn thou hast made, wilt thou destroy the same?
Remember, I am built of Clay, and must
Returne againe (without thy helpe) to Dust.
Thou didst create, preserve me, hast indu'd
My life with gracious blessings oft renew'd
Thy precious favours on me: How wert thou,
Once, so benigne, and so cruell now?
Thou hunt'st me like a Prey, my plagues encrease,
Succeed each other, and they never cease.
Why was I borne? Or why did not my Tombe
Receive me (weeping) from my mothers wombe
I have not long to live; Lord grant that I
May see some comfort, that am soone to dye.