Study Desk

"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."

"When I speak up, I feel no better; if I say nothing, that doesn't help either. I feel worn down. God, you have wasted me totally—me and my family! You've shriveled me like a dried prune, showing the world that you're against me. My gaunt face stares back at me from the mirror, a mute witness to your treatment of me. Your anger tears at me, your teeth rip me to shreds, your eyes burn holes in me—God, my enemy! People take one look at me and gasp. Contemptuous, they slap me around and gang up against me. And God just stands there and lets them do it, lets wicked people do what they want with me. I was contentedly minding my business when God beat me up. He grabbed me by the neck and threw me around. He set me up as his target, then rounded up archers to shoot at me. Merciless, they shot me full of arrows; bitter bile poured from my gut to the ground. He burst in on me, onslaught after onslaught, charging me like a mad bull.

"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!'"

"God alienated my family from me; everyone who knows me avoids me. My relatives and friends have all left; houseguests forget I ever existed. The servant girls treat me like a bum off the street, look at me like they've never seen me before. I call my attendant and he ignores me, ignores me even though I plead with him. My wife can't stand to be around me anymore. I'm repulsive to my family. Even street urchins despise me; when I come out, they taunt and jeer. Everyone I've ever been close to abhors me; my dearest loved ones reject me. I'm nothing but a bag of bones; my life hangs by a thread.

"Don't you even know the basics, how things have been since the earliest days, when Adam and Eve were first placed on earth? The good times of the wicked are short-lived; godless joy is only momentary. The evil might become world famous, strutting at the head of the celebrity parade, But still end up in a pile of dung. Acquaintances look at them with disgust and say, ‘What's that?' They fly off like a dream that can't be remembered, like a shadowy illusion that vanishes in the light. Though once notorious public figures, now they're nobodies, unnoticed, whether they come or go. Their children will go begging on skid row, and they'll have to give back their ill-gotten gain. Right in the prime of life, and youthful and vigorous, they'll die.

"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!

"I'm not deceived. I know what you're up to, the plans you're cooking up to bring me down. Naively you claim that the castles of tyrants fall to pieces, that the achievements of the wicked collapse. Have you ever asked world travelers how they see it? Have you not listened to their stories Of evil men and women who got off scot-free, who never had to pay for their wickedness? Did anyone ever confront them with their crimes? Did they ever have to face the music? Not likely—they're given fancy funerals with all the trimmings, Gently lowered into expensive graves, with everyone telling lies about how wonderful they were.

"Are you going to persist in that tired old line that wicked men and women have always used? Where did it get them? They died young, flash floods sweeping them off to their doom. They told God, ‘Get lost! What good is God Almighty to us?' And yet it was God who gave them everything they had. It's beyond me how they can carry on like this!

"Good people see bad people crash, and call for a celebration. Relieved, they crow, ‘At last! Our enemies—wiped out. Everything they had and stood for is up in smoke!'

"But if Judgment Day isn't hidden from the Almighty, why are we kept in the dark? There are people out there getting by with murder— stealing and lying and cheating. They rip off the poor and exploit the unfortunate, Push the helpless into the ditch, bully the weak so that they fear for their lives. The poor, like stray dogs and cats, scavenge for food in back alleys. They sort through the garbage of the rich, eke out survival on handouts. Homeless, they shiver through cold nights on the street; they've no place to lay their heads. Exposed to the weather, wet and frozen, they huddle in makeshift shelters. Nursing mothers have their babies snatched from them; the infants of the poor are kidnapped and sold. They go about patched and threadbare; even the hard workers go hungry. No matter how backbreaking their labor, they can never make ends meet. People are dying right and left, groaning in torment. The wretched cry out for help and God does nothing, acts like nothing's wrong!

"Then there are those who avoid light at all costs, who scorn the light-filled path. When the sun goes down, the murderer gets up— kills the poor and robs the defenseless. Sexual predators can't wait for nightfall, thinking, ‘No one can see us now.' Burglars do their work at night, but keep well out of sight through the day. They want nothing to do with light. Deep darkness is morning for that bunch; they make the terrors of darkness their companions in crime.

"They are scraps of wood floating on the water— useless, cursed junk, good for nothing. As surely as snow melts under the hot, summer sun, sinners disappear in the grave. The womb has forgotten them, worms have relished them— nothing that is evil lasts. Unscrupulous, they prey on those less fortunate. However much they strut and flex their muscles, there's nothing to them. They're hollow. They may have an illusion of security, but God has his eye on them. They may get their brief successes, but then it's over, nothing to show for it. Like yesterday's newspaper, they're used to wrap up the garbage. You're free to try to prove me a liar, but you won't be able to do it."

"I'll quote your own words back to you: "‘This is how God treats the wicked, this is what evil people can expect from God Almighty: Their children—all of them—will die violent deaths; they'll never have enough bread to put on the table. They'll be wiped out by the plague, and none of the widows will shed a tear when they're gone. Even if they make a lot of money and are resplendent in the latest fashions, It's the good who will end up wearing the clothes and the decent who will divide up the money. They build elaborate houses that won't survive a single winter. They go to bed wealthy and wake up poor. Terrors pour in on them like flash floods— a tornado snatches them away in the middle of the night, A cyclone sweeps them up—gone! Not a trace of them left, not even a footprint. Catastrophes relentlessly pursue them; they run this way and that, but there's no place to hide— Pummeled by the weather, blown to kingdom come by the storm.'"

"We all know how silver seams the rocks, we've seen the stuff from which gold is refined, We're aware of how iron is dug out of the ground and copper is smelted from rock. Miners penetrate the earth's darkness, searching the roots of the mountains for ore, digging away in the suffocating darkness. Far from civilization, far from the traffic, they cut a shaft, and are lowered into it by ropes. Earth's surface is a field for grain, but its depths are a forge Firing sapphires from stones and chiseling gold from rocks. Vultures are blind to its riches, hawks never lay eyes on it. Wild animals are oblivious to it, lions don't know it's there. Miners hammer away at the rock, they uproot the mountains. They tunnel through the rock and find all kinds of beautiful gems. They discover the origins of rivers, and bring earth's secrets to light.

"But where, oh where, will they find Wisdom? Where does Insight hide? Mortals don't have a clue, haven't the slightest idea where to look. Earth's depths say, ‘It's not here'; ocean deeps echo, ‘Never heard of it.' It can't be bought with the finest gold; no amount of silver can get it. Even famous Ophir gold can't buy it, not even diamonds and sapphires. Neither gold nor emeralds are comparable; extravagant jewelry can't touch it. Pearl necklaces and ruby bracelets—why bother? None of this is even a down payment on Wisdom! Pile gold and African diamonds as high as you will, they can't hold a candle to Wisdom.

"So where does Wisdom come from? And where does Insight live? It can't be found by looking, no matter how deep you dig, no matter how high you fly. If you search through the graveyard and question the dead, they say, ‘We've only heard rumors of it.'

"When I walked downtown and sat with my friends in the public square, Young and old greeted me with respect; I was honored by everyone in town. When I spoke, everyone listened; they hung on my every word. People who knew me spoke well of me; my reputation went ahead of me. I was known for helping people in trouble and standing up for those who were down on their luck. The dying blessed me, and the bereaved were cheered by my visits. All my dealings with people were good. I was known for being fair to everyone I met. I was eyes to the blind and feet to the lame, Father to the needy, and champion of abused aliens. I grabbed street thieves by the scruff of the neck and made them give back what they'd stolen. I thought, ‘I'll die peacefully in my own bed, grateful for a long and full life, A life deep-rooted and well-watered, a life limber and dew-fresh, My soul suffused with glory and my body robust until the day I die.'

"Men and women listened when I spoke, hung expectantly on my every word. After I spoke, they'd be quiet, taking it all in. They welcomed my counsel like spring rain, drinking it all in. When I smiled at them, they could hardly believe it; their faces lit up, their troubles took wing! I was their leader, establishing the mood and setting the pace by which they lived. Where I led, they followed."