Chapter 13

  Lo, all -- hath mine eye seen, Heard hath mine ear, and it attendeth to it.  

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  According to your knowledge I have known -- also I. I am not fallen more than you.  

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  Yet I for the Mighty One do speak, And to argue for God I delight.  

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  And yet, ye [are] forgers of falsehood, Physicians of nought -- all of you,  

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  O that ye would keep perfectly silent, And it would be to you for wisdom.  

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  Hear, I pray you, my argument, And to the pleadings of my lips attend,  

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  For God do ye speak perverseness? And for Him do ye speak deceit?  

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  His face do ye accept, if for God ye strive?  

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  Is [it] good that He doth search you, If, as one mocketh at a man, ye mock at Him?  

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  He doth surely reprove you, if in secret ye accept faces.  

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  Doth not His excellency terrify you? And His dread fall upon you?  

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  Your remembrances [are] similes of ashes, For high places of clay your heights.  

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  Keep silent from me, and I speak, And pass over me doth what?  

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  Wherefore do I take my flesh in my teeth? And my soul put in my hand?  

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  Lo, He doth slay me -- I wait not! Only, my ways unto His face I argue.  

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  Also -- He [is] to me for salvation, For the profane cometh not before Him.  

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  Hear ye diligently my word, And my declaration with your ears.  

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  Lo, I pray you, I have set in order the cause, I have known that I am righteous.  

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  Who [is] he that doth strive with me? For now I keep silent and gasp.  

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  Only two things, O God, do with me: Then from Thy face I am not hidden.  

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  Thy hand put far off from me, And Thy terror let not terrify me.  

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  And call Thou, and I -- I answer, Or -- I speak, and answer Thou me.  

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  How many iniquities and sins have I? My transgression and my sin let me know.  

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  Why dost Thou hide Thy face? And reckonest me for an enemy to Thee?  

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  A leaf driven away dost Thou terrify? And the dry stubble dost Thou pursue?  

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  For Thou writest against me bitter things, And causest me to possess iniquities of my youth:  

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  And puttest in the stocks my feet, And observest all my paths, On the roots of my feet Thou settest a print,  

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  And he, as a rotten thing, weareth away, As a garment hath a moth consumed him.  

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