Job 30 in plain modern English. New Ground English Translation.
And now men younger than I am laugh at me — men whose fathers I would not have put with the that my
What use to me was the strength in their hands? Everything solid in them was already gone.
Worn hollow by hunger and want, they gnaw at the dry ground in the ruined waste of the night before.
They pick out of the scrub and live on the roots of broom bushes.
They are driven out of the settlement. People shout after them the way you shout after a thief.
They have to live in the cut of dry riverbeds, in holes in the dirt and in the rocks.
Out in the brush they bray like donkeys. Under the thornbushes they huddle together.
Sons of fools, sons of with no name, whipped out of the country.
And now I am the song they sing. I am the name they throw around as a joke.
They cannot stand the sight of me. They keep their distance, and they do not hold back the spit from my face.
Because God my and brought me down, they have thrown off the bridle right in front of me.
On my right the mob gets to its feet. They shove my legs out from under me and throw up to come at me.
They tear up my road. They profit from my collapse, and nobody has to help them do it.
They come on like water through a broken wall, rolling in under the wreckage.
Terrors are turned loose on me. My standing is chased off like a gust of wind, and my has gone by like a cloud.
And now my pours out of me. Days of misery have their hands on me.
At night it drills through my bones, and the pain that chews on me never lies down.
With brute strength he takes hold of my clothing and grips me by the collar of my shirt.
He has thrown me down into the mud, and now I am no better than and
I scream at you and you do not answer. I stand up, and you only look at me.
You have turned cruel on me. With the whole strength of your hand you come after me.
You lift me up to the wind and make me ride it, then you dissolve me in the roar of the storm.
I know you are walking me back to death, to the where is
Surely no one raises a hand against a man already in ruins, when in his wreckage he is crying out for help.
Didn't I cry for the man whose day was hard? Wasn't I sick at heart for people who had nothing?
I looked for good, and what came was harm. I waited for light, and the dark came instead.
My insides boil and will not settle. Days of misery got here ahead of me.
I walk around blackened, and not by the sun. I stand up in the assembly and scream for help.
I have become a brother to jackals and a companion to ostriches.
My skin has gone black and is peeling off me, and my bones burn with fever.
My harp has been retuned to mourning, and my flute to the sound of people crying.