After the last poem, I told myself that I needed to take a little break from writing, as it had become all-consuming. This is the eighth poem written in the past four weeks and other things in my life are not getting taken care of . . . like sleep, getting my taxes ready to be filed — that sort of thing.
My wife said that I was tapping my fingers on her back one night, like I was running a line through my head. Not cool.
Last week, my password at work expired and I replaced it . . . with Job's name stuck somewhere in the middle of it.
But, I couldn't help myself. Looking at the first verse led to the second verse and once I got started, I couldn't stop myself.
Since Job 10 contained 22 verses, I had planned for this poem to be eleven stanzas long. But, when I came across the verse using "wave after wave" and two verses later was "the grave", I couldn't pass that combination up.
I skimped on the verse in between those two in order to get the rhyme, which essentially messed up my timing for the rest of the poem. I could have forced some phrasing in order to get the final verse in there (Job 10:22) but it wouldn't have been pretty. Or, as effective.
Job's Plea to God
Created for This?
based on Job 10
I am weary of life. I'll complain of this strife;
let my soul, so embittered, cry out.
And to God, let me say, Don't condemn me this way,
let me know what my charge is about.
Are you pleased to oppress the one thing you could bless,
by rejecting the work of your hands?
While I struggle with trial, you just sit back and smile
at the wicked with all of their plans?
Are your eyes made of flesh? Do they see something less
than man's anguish and pain from within?
Are your days like my peers with our limited years —
that you eagerly search for my sin;
for although I am free of the guilt ascribed me
there is no one to save me from you.
From my toes to my heart, you have fashioned each part —
now those same hands will tear me in two?
Please remember that day when you formed me from clay;
you'll return me to dust now so soon?
Did you not pour me out like some milk from a spout,
make me curdle like cheese in the womb?
Then you covered me in my remarkable skin,
knit together my sinew with bone.
Gave me life and your love, kept me safe from above —
and my spirit from dangers unknown.
All these things you've concealed now have all been revealed;
and your secretive thoughts have been spilt:
you would note day and time if I sinned — like a crime,
yet you would not forgive me my guilt.
Whether guilty or right — its the same in your sight;
I'm ashamed and I'm filled with self-hate.
If I showed just one ounce of my pride, you would pounce
like a lion — your powers are great.
With new witnesses now you're more angry somehow,
sending hardships in wave after wave.
Why, then, even exist if I'm born to all this?
Why not send me from womb to the grave?
Since my days are so few I'd like one without you,
for one moment of joy — just a breath,
ere my trials adjourn and I never return
from the land of the shadow of death.
Remember that you made me from dust—will you turn me back to dust so soon?