Study Desk

"And so I'm not keeping one bit of this quiet, I'm laying it all out on the table; my complaining to high heaven is bitter, but honest. Are you going to put a muzzle on me, the way you quiet the sea and still the storm? If I say, ‘I'm going to bed, then I'll feel better. A little nap will lift my spirits,' You come and so scare me with nightmares and frighten me with ghosts That I'd rather strangle in the bedclothes than face this kind of life any longer. I hate this life! Who needs any more of this? Let me alone! There's nothing to my life—it's nothing but smoke.

"What are mortals anyway, that you bother with them, that you even give them the time of day? That you check up on them every morning, looking in on them to see how they're doing? Let up on me, will you? Can't you even let me spit in peace? Even suppose I'd sinned—how would that hurt you? You're responsible for every human being. Don't you have better things to do than pick on me? Why make a federal case out of me? Why don't you just forgive my sins and start me off with a clean slate? The way things are going, I'll soon be dead. You'll look high and low, but I won't be around."

"Put the question to our ancestors, study what they learned from their ancestors. For we're newcomers at this, with a lot to learn, and not too long to learn it. So why not let the ancients teach you, tell you what's what, instruct you in what they knew from experience? Can mighty pine trees grow tall without soil? Can luscious tomatoes flourish without water? Blossoming flowers look great before they're cut or picked, but without soil or water they wither more quickly than grass. That's what happens to all who forget God— all their hopes come to nothing. They hang their life from one thin thread, they hitch their fate to a spider web. One jiggle and the thread breaks, one jab and the web collapses. Or they're like weeds springing up in the sunshine, invading the garden, Spreading everywhere, overtaking the flowers, getting a foothold even in the rocks. But when the gardener rips them out by the roots, the garden doesn't miss them one bit. The sooner the godless are gone, the better; then good plants can grow in their place.

"But you never told me about this part. I should have known that there was more to it— That if I so much as missed a step, you'd notice and pounce, wouldn't let me get by with a thing. If I'm truly guilty, I'm doomed. But if I'm innocent, it's no better—I'm still doomed. My belly is full of bitterness. I'm up to my ears in a swamp of affliction. I try to make the best of it, try to brave it out, but you're too much for me, relentless, like a lion on the prowl. You line up fresh witnesses against me. You compound your anger and pile on the grief and pain!

"Still, if you set your heart on God and reach out to him, If you scrub your hands of sin and refuse to entertain evil in your home, You'll be able to face the world unashamed and keep a firm grip on life, guiltless and fearless. You'll forget your troubles; they'll be like old, faded photographs. Your world will be washed in sunshine, every shadow dispersed by dayspring. Full of hope, you'll relax, confident again; you'll look around, sit back, and take it easy. Expansive, without a care in the world, you'll be hunted out by many for your blessing. But the wicked will see none of this. They're headed down a dead-end road with nothing to look forward to—nothing."

"But ask the animals what they think—let them teach you; let the birds tell you what's going on. Put your ear to the earth—learn the basics. Listen—the fish in the ocean will tell you their stories. Isn't it clear that they all know and agree that God is sovereign, that he holds all things in his hand— Every living soul, yes, every breathing creature? Isn't this all just common sense, as common as the sense of taste? Do you think the elderly have a corner on wisdom, that you have to grow old before you understand life?

"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.

"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.

"God, you've made me the talk of the town— people spit in my face; I can hardly see from crying so much; I'm nothing but skin and bones. Decent people can't believe what they're seeing; the good-hearted wake up and insist I've given up on God.

"But principled people hold tight, keep a firm grip on life, sure that their clean, pure hands will get stronger and stronger!

"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!

"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.

"I travel East looking for him—I find no one; then West, but not a trace; I go North, but he's hidden his tracks; then South, but not even a glimpse.

"But he knows where I am and what I've done. He can cross-examine me all he wants, and I'll pass the test with honors. I've followed him closely, my feet in his footprints, not once swerving from his way. I've obeyed every word he's spoken, and not just obeyed his advice—I've treasured it.