Job · Chapter 6

[ edit] Anſwerende forſoþe Job ſeiþ, Wolde God, my ſynnes weren weȝed, bi þe whiche wraþe I deſeruede; and þe wrecchidneſſe þat I ſuffre, in a balaunce. As þe grauel of þe ſe þis more greuous ſhulde ſeme; wherfore and my woordis ben ful of ſorewe. For þe arwis of þe Lord ben in me, of þe whiche þe indignacioun drinkeþ vp my ſpirit; and þe gaſtneſſis of þe Lord fiȝten aȝen me. Wheþir an aſſe ſhal roren, whan he haþ erbe? Or an oxe ſhul loowen, whan befor þe fulle cracche he ſhal ſtonde? Or ſhal moun ben eten vnſauere þing, þat is not wiþ ſalt poudrid? Or ſhal a man moun taſte, þat taſtid bringeþ deþ?

Forſoþe to þe hungrende lif, alſo bitter þingis ſemen to be ſweete; þat beforn my ſoule wolde not touche, now for anguyſh ben my metis. Who ȝeue, þat myn aſking come; and þat I abijde, ȝelde to me God? And þat began, he me to-trede; loſe his hond, and hewe me doun? And þis be to me a coumfort, þat þe tormentende me wiþ ſorewe perſhe not, ne wiþſeie to þe woordis of a ſeint. What forſoþe is my ſtrengþe, þat I ſuffre? or what myn ende, þat I pacientli do? Ne þe ſtrengþe of ſtones my ſtrengþe, ne my fleſh is braſene. Lo! þer is not helpe to me in me; alſo my neceſſarie men wenten awei fro me. He þat takeþ awei fro his frend mercy, þe drede of þe Lord forſakeþ.

My breþern paſſeden biſide me, as a ſtrem þat raueſhe meel paſſeþ in valeis. Þat dreden froſt, ſnowȝ ſhal falle vpon hem. Þe time þat þei wer ſcaterid, þei ſhul perſhe; and as þei enchaufe, þei ſhul be loſid fro þer place. Wiþinne wrappid ben þe ſties of þer goingus; þei ſhul gon in vein, and perſhen. Beholdeþ þe ſties of Theman, þe weies of Saba; and abidiþ a litil while. Þei ben confoundid, for I hopide; þei camen alſo to me, and wiþ ſhame þei ben ouercouered. Now ȝee han comen, and now ſeande my veniaunce ȝee dreden. Wheþer I ſeide, Bringeþ to me, and of ȝoure ſubſtaunce ȝiueþ to me? or, Deliuere me fro þe hond of þe enemy, and fro þe hond of ſtronge men pulliþ out me?

Techeþ me, and I ſhal be ſtille; and if any þing perauenture I haue vnknowen, enformeþ me. Whi han ȝee bacbitid to þe woordis of treuþe? whan of ȝou no man be, þat mai vndernyme me. To blamen onli ſpechis ȝee ordeynyn, and aȝen wind woordis ȝee ſpeken. Vpon þe faderles child ȝee fallen on, and enforſen ȝoure frend to turne vp ſo doun. Nerþelater þat ȝee han begunne, fulfilliþ; ȝiueþ ere, and ſeeþ, wheþer I lie. Anſwerþ, I beſeche, wiþoute ſtrif, and ſpekende þat, þat is riȝtwis, ſhewiþ. And ȝee ſhul not finde in my tunge wickidneſſe, ne in my chekis folie ſhal þurȝ ſoune.