Job, Chapter 33

And now, O Iob, what I shall utter heare:
As I my lips, so open thou thine eare.
I sacred knowledge clearely will impart;
Drawne from the fountaine of a single heart.
God made us both, with breath of Life inspir'd;
In shrouds of fraile Mortalitie attyr'd:
Then since we shall with equall Armes contend;
Arise, and if thou canst, thy cause defend.
Behold, according to thy wish I stand
In steed of God; though made of slime and Sand.
I will not with sterne Menaces affright:
Nor shall my hand on thee like Thunder-light.
For I with griefe, O Iob, have heard thee vaunt;
And breake into this passionate Complaint:
My Heart is uncorrupt, my Innocence
Without a Staine, my life free from offence:
Yet he occasion seekes to overthrow,
And trample on me as his mortall foe:
Who, least I should escape, in fetters binds;
Observes my steps, and makes the faults he finds.
How rash is thy bold charge? God is compleat
In his owne Essence; much than man more great:
And yet dar'st thou contend? his patience grieve?
Will He a reason for his Actions give?
Oft he to Mortals speaks: yet will not they
The Counsell of his Oracles obey.
Sometimes by Dreames in silence of the Night;
Sometimes by Visions he informes their sight:
When sleepe his Poppy on their Temples sheds;
Or they lye musing on their restlesse beds.
The cause of their afflictions then reveales;
And on their Hearts his reprehension seales:
That he may man prevent, his pride repell;
Save from the sword, and greedy jawes of Hell.
For this, diseased on his bed he groanes;
While unrelenting Torments gnaw his bones:
The sight of Food his emptie stomack fils;
And Dainties to his taste are lothsome Pils:
By wasting Hecticks of his flesh bereft;
Bones late unseene, alone apparant left:
His Soule sits mourning at the gates of Death;
While anguish strives to suffocate his breath.
But if a Prophet, or Interpreter,
One of a thousand, with the sicke conferre:
Before his eyes, his ugly sinnes detect;
And to a better life his Steps direct:
Then Mercy thus will cry; Release the bound
From Sinne and Hell: I have a Ransome found.
Then shall his bones the flesh of Babes indue:
His youth and beauty like the spring renew.
He shall his God implore; his glorious Face
With joy behold, and flourish in his grace.
For God will his Integritie regard:
His vertue with a Bounteous hand reward.
His Eyes the secrets of all hearts survay.
When the contrite and bleeding Soule shall say;
How have I Justice forc'd! the poore undone!
Sinne heapt on Sinne! to my owne Ruine run!
Then God shall raise him from the shades of Night:
And he shall live to see th'etheriall Light.
Thus oft to man that Power which wounds and heales,
The way to Joy by Misery Reveales:
That he may longer with the living dwell;
Snatcht from th'extended jawes of Death and Hell.
O thou of men most wretched! heare me speake:
Nor in thy frantick passion silence breake.
If thou thy selfe canst cleare, at large reply:
For I thy life would gladly justifie.
If not; my words with wisedome shall informe
Thy erring Soule, and mitigate this Storme.