Study Desk

"True wisdom and real power belong to God; from him we learn how to live, and also what to live for. If he tears something down, it's down for good; if he locks people up, they're locked up for good. If he holds back the rain, there's a drought; if he lets it loose, there's a flood. Strength and success belong to God; both deceived and deceiver must answer to him. He strips experts of their vaunted credentials, exposes judges as witless fools. He divests kings of their royal garments, then ties a rag around their waists. He strips priests of their robes, and fires high officials from their jobs. He forces trusted sages to keep silence, deprives elders of their good sense and wisdom. He dumps contempt on famous people, disarms the strong and mighty. He shines a spotlight into caves of darkness, hauls deepest darkness into the noonday sun. He makes nations rise and then fall, builds up some and abandons others. He robs world leaders of their reason, and sends them off into no-man's-land. They grope in the dark without a clue, lurching and staggering like drunks."

"Listen now while I make my case, consider my side of things for a change. Or are you going to keep on lying ‘to do God a service'? to make up stories ‘to get him off the hook'? Why do you always take his side? Do you think he needs a lawyer to defend himself? How would you fare if you were in the dock? Your lies might convince a jury—but would they convince God? He'd reprimand you on the spot if he detected a bias in your witness. Doesn't his splendor put you in awe? Aren't you afraid to speak cheap lies before him? Your wise sayings are knickknack wisdom, good for nothing but gathering dust.

"So hold your tongue while I have my say, then I'll take whatever I have coming to me. Why do I go out on a limb like this and take my life in my hands? Because even if he killed me, I'd keep on hoping. I'd defend my innocence to the very end. Just wait, this is going to work out for the best—my salvation! If I were guilt-stricken do you think I'd be doing this— laying myself on the line before God? You'd better pay attention to what I'm telling you, listen carefully with both ears. Now that I've laid out my defense, I'm sure that I'll be acquitted. Can anyone prove charges against me? I've said my piece. I rest my case.

"Please, God, I have two requests; grant them so I'll know I count with you: First, lay off the afflictions; the terror is too much for me. Second, address me directly so I can answer you, or let me speak and then you answer me. How many sins have been charged against me? Show me the list—how bad is it? Why do you stay hidden and silent? Why treat me like I'm your enemy? Why kick me around like an old tin can? Why beat a dead horse? You compile a long list of mean things about me, even hold me accountable for the sins of my youth. You hobble me so I can't move about. You watch every move I make, and brand me as a dangerous character.

"We're all adrift in the same boat: too few days, too many troubles. We spring up like wildflowers in the desert and then wilt, transient as the shadow of a cloud. Do you occupy your time with such fragile wisps? Why even bother hauling me into court? There's nothing much to us to start with; how do you expect us to amount to anything? Mortals have a limited life span. You've already decided how long we'll live— you set the boundary and no one can cross it. So why not give us a break? Ease up! Even ditchdiggers get occasional days off. For a tree there is always hope. Chop it down and it still has a chance— its roots can put out fresh sprouts. Even if its roots are old and gnarled, its stump long dormant, At the first whiff of water it comes to life, buds and grows like a sapling. But men and women? They die and stay dead. They breathe their last, and that's it. Like lakes and rivers that have dried up, parched reminders of what once was, So mortals lie down and never get up, never wake up again—never. Why don't you just bury me alive, get me out of the way until your anger cools? But don't leave me there! Set a date when you'll see me again. If we humans die, will we live again? That's my question. All through these difficult days I keep hoping, waiting for the final change—for resurrection! Homesick with longing for the creature you made, you'll call—and I'll answer! You'll watch over every step I take, but you won't keep track of my missteps. My sins will be stuffed in a sack and thrown into the sea—sunk in deep ocean.

"Meanwhile, mountains wear down and boulders break up, Stones wear smooth and soil erodes, as you relentlessly grind down our hope. You're too much for us. As always, you get the last word. We don't like it and our faces show it, but you send us off anyway. If our children do well for themselves, we never know it; if they do badly, we're spared the hurt. Body and soul, that's it for us— a lifetime of pain, a lifetime of sorrow."

"I've a thing or two to tell you, so listen up! I'm letting you in on my views; It's what wise men and women have always taught, holding nothing back from what they were taught By their parents, back in the days when they had this land all to themselves: Those who live by their own rules, not God's, can expect nothing but trouble, and the longer they live, the worse it gets. Every little sound terrifies them. Just when they think they have it made, disaster strikes. They despair of things ever getting better— they're on the list of people for whom things always turn out for the worst. They wander here and there, never knowing where the next meal is coming from— every day is doomsday! They live in constant terror, always with their backs up against the wall Because they insist on shaking their fists at God, defying God Almighty to his face, Always and ever at odds with God, always on the defensive.

"Even if they're the picture of health, trim and fit and youthful, They'll end up living in a ghost town sleeping in a hovel not fit for a dog, a ramshackle shack. They'll never get ahead, never amount to a hill of beans. And then death—don't think they'll escape that! They'll end up shriveled weeds, brought down by a puff of God's breath. There's a lesson here: Whoever invests in lies, gets lies for interest, Paid in full before the due date. Some investment! They'll be like fruit frost-killed before it ripens, like buds sheared off before they bloom. The godless are fruitless—a barren crew; a life built on bribes goes up in smoke. They have sex with sin and give birth to evil. Their lives are wombs for breeding deceit."

"O Earth, don't cover up the wrong done to me! Don't muffle my cry! There must be Someone in heaven who knows the truth about me, in highest heaven, some Attorney who can clear my name— My Champion, my Friend, while I'm weeping my eyes out before God. I appeal to the One who represents mortals before God as a neighbor stands up for a neighbor. "Only a few years are left before I set out on the road of no return."

"O God, pledge your support for me. Give it to me in writing, with your signature. You're the only one who can do it! These people are so useless! You know firsthand how stupid they can be. You wouldn't let them have the last word, would you? Those who betray their own friends leave a legacy of abuse to their children.

"Maybe you'd all like to start over, to try it again, the bunch of you. So far I haven't come across one scrap of wisdom in anything you've said. My life's about over. All my plans are smashed, all my hopes are snuffed out— My hope that night would turn into day, my hope that dawn was about to break. If all I have to look forward to is a home in the graveyard, if my only hope for comfort is a well-built coffin, If a family reunion means going six feet under, and the only family that shows up is worms, Do you call that hope? Who on earth could find any hope in that? No. If hope and I are to be buried together, I suppose you'll all come to the double funeral!"

"Here's the rule: The light of the wicked is put out. Their flame dies down and is extinguished. Their house goes dark— every lamp in the place goes out. Their strong strides weaken, falter; they stumble into their own traps. They get all tangled up in their own red tape, Their feet are grabbed and caught, their necks in a noose. They trip on ropes they've hidden, and fall into pits they've dug themselves. Terrors come at them from all sides. They run helter-skelter. The hungry grave is ready to gobble them up for supper, To lay them out for a gourmet meal, a treat for ravenous Death. They are snatched from their home sweet home and marched straight to the death house. Their lives go up in smoke; acid rain soaks their ruins. Their roots rot and their branches wither. They'll never again be remembered— nameless in unmarked graves. They are plunged from light into darkness, banished from the world. And they leave empty-handed—not one single child— nothing to show for their life on this earth. Westerners are aghast at their fate, easterners are horrified: ‘Oh no! So this is what happens to perverse people. This is how the God-ignorant end up!'"

"Look at me—I shout ‘Murder!' and I'm ignored; I call for help and no one bothers to stop. God threw a barricade across my path—I'm stymied; he turned out all the lights—I'm stuck in the dark. He destroyed my reputation, robbed me of all self-respect. He tore me apart piece by piece—I'm ruined! Then he yanked out hope by the roots. He's angry with me—oh, how he's angry! He treats me like his worst enemy. He has launched a major campaign against me, using every weapon he can think of, coming at me from all sides at once.

"If only my words were written in a book— better yet, chiseled in stone! Still, I know that God lives—the One who gives me back my life— and eventually he'll take his stand on earth. And I'll see him—even though I get skinned alive!— see God myself, with my very own eyes. Oh, how I long for that day!

"If you're thinking, ‘How can we get through to him, get him to see that his trouble is all his own fault?' Forget it. Start worrying about yourselves. Worry about your own sins and God's coming judgment, for judgment is most certainly on the way."

"They savor evil as a delicacy, roll it around on their tongues, Prolong the flavor, a dalliance in decadence— real gourmets of evil! But then they get stomach cramps, a bad case of food poisoning. They gag on all that rich food; God makes them vomit it up. They gorge on evil, make a diet of that poison— a deadly diet—and it kills them. No quiet picnics for them beside gentle streams with fresh-baked bread and cheese, and tall, cool drinks. They spit out their food half-chewed, unable to relax and enjoy anything they've worked for. And why? Because they exploited the poor, took what never belonged to them.

"Such God-denying people are never content with what they have or who they are; their greed drives them relentlessly. They plunder everything but they can't hold on to any of it. Just when they think they have it all, disaster strikes; they're served up a plate full of misery. When they've filled their bellies with that, God gives them a taste of his anger, and they get to chew on that for a while. As they run for their lives from one disaster, they run smack into another. They're knocked around from pillar to post, beaten to within an inch of their lives. They're trapped in a house of horrors, and see their loot disappear down a black hole. Their lives are a total loss— not a penny to their name, not so much as a bean. God will strip them of their sin-soaked clothes and hang their dirty laundry out for all to see. Life is a complete wipeout for them, nothing surviving God's wrath. There! That's God's blueprint for the wicked— what they have to look forward to."

"It's not you I'm complaining to—it's God. Is it any wonder I'm getting fed up with his silence? Take a good look at me. Aren't you appalled by what's happened? No! Don't say anything. I can do without your comments. When I look back, I go into shock, my body is racked with spasms. Why do the wicked have it so good, live to a ripe old age and get rich? They get to see their children succeed, get to watch and enjoy their grandchildren. Their homes are peaceful and free from fear; they never experience God's disciplining rod. Their bulls breed with great vigor and their cows calve without fail. They send their children out to play and watch them frolic like spring lambs. They make music with fiddles and flutes, have good times singing and dancing. They have a long life on easy street, and die painlessly in their sleep. They say to God, ‘Get lost! We've no interest in you or your ways. Why should we have dealings with God Almighty? What's there in it for us?' But they're wrong, dead wrong—they're not gods. It's beyond me how they can carry on like this!

"Still, how often does it happen that the wicked fail, or disaster strikes, or they get their just deserts? How often are they blown away by bad luck? Not very often. You might say, ‘God is saving up the punishment for their children.' I say, ‘Give it to them right now so they'll know what they've done!' They deserve to experience the effects of their evil, feel the full force of God's wrath firsthand. What do they care what happens to their families after they're safely tucked away in the grave?

"But who are we to tell God how to run his affairs? He's dealing with matters that are way over our heads. Some people die in the prime of life, with everything going for them— fat and sassy. Others die bitter and bereft, never getting a taste of happiness. They're laid out side by side in the cemetery, where the worms can't tell one from the other.