Feminine 101

Ashes, ashes all around me lay

As I clasp and scrape with shard of clay.

These seven days I am not alone,

But gathered with these flesh and bone.

My friends join in silent reverie.

It’s plain, the weight of grief on me.

So we mourned in wordless gloom,

And cleanse my weeping sores of rheum.

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I, but lowly man, was not privy then,

To the sons of God or councils of heaven.

I knew nothing, the boasts of the Divine

How He purposely baited that Snake to whine,

Or of the Accuser’s fatal complaint.

Nor did I grasp the Father’s restraint.

Handed over with a warning to Satan’s fervor,

“This far you may go, and not further.”

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And so began the worst day of my life,

One of calamity, sorrow, and strife.

Sabeans stole the stock tilling my acres.

To fire the sheep and camels to raiders.

On the heels of that the worst word brought,

Perished my children in the gale’s onslaught.

Knowing not what brought the edge of this sword

I prayed, “Blessed be the Name of the LORD.”

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It was not over, for His work was not done,

Given over for testing to the cursed one.

Again the bounds of affliction were set,

And my flesh grew blighted, oozing and wet.

I did not hear, “You may not take his life.”

Only the compelling case of my wife.

Stripped of her babes I know she was hurting,

But shall we accept only good, not suffering?

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That is where my dear friends found me,

And a week’s grief they allowed me.

I would not curse God, but the day I was born?

I would wish it erased, in bitterness and scorn.

It was Eliphaz who first began speaking,

And voiced what surely they all were thinking.

When one sows trouble, the same they accrue.

So, dear Job, tell us what did you do?

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Did I despise the discipline in His Name?

Of course not! But it stung all the same.

By His Word, I’m brought low in my ordeal, 

And by those same hands He will heal.

His arrows sink deep and I implore,

I would wish for death–to be no more.

My friend’s rebuke my pride has spurred,

Though neither we dare deny God’s Word.

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The hands that fashioned me as clay

Have ground me to dust day after day.

If this was the aim, why bring me from the womb?

If only I had died and gone straight to the tomb!

Soaked in bitterness this nightmare my story,

Zophar chimes in, also accusatory.

“If wrongdoing is in your hand, put it away,

Then you could lift untainted face.”

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But what have I done, please tell me!

No deed I know would thus propel me

To this disaster or warrant this verdict.

I’m at a loss, though far from perfect.

The truth in their words, it cuts, it stings.

What is man, and the “righteousness” he brings?

More determined are they to find fault,

And more offended am I by their assault.

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If this is His judgement, then God is wrong,

But I’m certain something else is going on.

Our debate grows heated as tempers rise,

We double down, each right in his own eyes.

Wilder their insults, more colorful their censure

And my indignance blooms in equal measure.

If I could face Him–my words ever grander–

I’d climb heaven’s heights and demand He answer!

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At last we fall silent, fuming, dissatisfied.

I, certain I am right–they, that I’ve lied.

It is that youth who decides to speak.

And Elihu offers a fiery critique.

God shows no bias to the rich or the barren,

Since one and all they are the work of His hand.

Rising behind his searing remonstrance

Storm clouds boil in the heavenly expanse.

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Lighting flashes amidst clouded peaks.

Then out of the whirlwind, at last, He speaks,

And a fool’s careless words are now to be weighed.

“Where were you when Earth’s foundation was laid?

Know you the song of the morning star?

Who told the waves they may only come this far?

Have you made the dawn to know its place?

Has death revealed to you her gates?

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Who taught the mountain goat to give birth?

The ostrich forsake her nest to the dusty earth?

Who made her run on earthen floor

And by understanding makes the hawk soar?”

Under weight of His presence I am brought low,

What is there to say, now that I know?

After I have pontificated so long,

He isn’t done, the Author of the evensong.

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“Will you condemn me or dare instruct?

Tell me, you who knows so much!”

I made the Behemoth as I made you.

Can you pierce Leviathan with the harpoon?”

How dare I with the Almighty contend

If a single creation I can’t comprehend?

Raising my hands to ward off the stream,

I’d heard of Him before, but now I have seen.

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I repent the arrogance with which I told

“Put to the test, He will find me as gold.”

The only gold He finds is that which He formed.

And that He did even while I scorned.

Ashes, ashes all around me lay.

I repent in dust, nothing more to say.

Unthinkable that even now He forgives.

But, of course, I know that my Redeemer lives.

This is a dramatized telling of the biblical book of Job.

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