Job, Chapter 23

Then Iob: though my complaints observe no bounds;
Yet Oh, how farre lesse bitter then my wounds!
Would his divine Recesse to me were knowne;
That I at length might plead before his Throne.
I would such waighty arguments inforce,
As should convert his Fury to Remorse.
Then should my longing Soule his answer heare:
Would be object his power? or daunt with feare?
Oh no, his Goodnesse rather would impart
New vigor, and repaire my broken Heart.
He would the Plea of Innocence admit:
And me for ever by his Sentence quit.
But is not to be found: though I should runne
To those disclosing Portals of the Sunne;
And walke his way, untill his Horses steepe
Their fiery fetlocks in the Iberian Deepe:
Or should I to the opposed Poles repaire;
Where equall cold congeales the fixed aire:
And yet his searching Eyes my paths behold
When he hath try'd me I shall shine like gold:
For in his tract my wary feet have stept;
His undeclined wayes precisely kept:
Nor ever, have revolted from his Lawes:
To me more sweet then food to hungry Jawes.
But he is still the same: (oh who can shun,
Or change his Fate!) what he decrees is done.
This truth behold in me: His Misteries
Are Sacred, and conceal'd from mortall Eyes.
I therefore tremble at his dreadfull sight:
Distracted thoughts my troubled Soule affright.
For oh, his terror melts my heart to teares;
Dissolves my braine, and harrowes me with feares.
Who neither would by Death prevent my woes;
Nor ease my Soule in these her bitter Throes.