Chapter 30
| Collection: | The Book of Job and 42 Paintings |
| Author: | Fr. Antonio Oteiza |
| Type: | Painting |
| Location: | Cataloguing Room |
| Characteristics: | Acrylic paint on cardboard |
| Artwork: |
Click to enlarge |
| Description: |
But now men younger than I am mock me, men whose fathers I would have refused to put even with the dogs of my flock; their arms would have been of no use to me, so utterly had their strength failed them. Gaunt from hunger and want, they wandered about, gnawing at the steppe, by night in the desolate wasteland, pulling saltwort from the bushes and feeding on broom roots. Driven from the settlements, shouted at like thieves, they lived in dreadful ravines, in caves and caverns, howling among the bushes and huddling beneath the nettles. Vile rabble, offspring without a name, driven from the land with whips! But now they make songs about me; I have become the subject of their mockery. They despise me and keep their distance from me, yet they even dare to spit in my face. God has loosened my cord and humbled me, and they cast off all restraint before me. At my right a rabble rises up, trampling out paths for my destruction. They tear up my path, work for my ruin, and no one restrains them. They burst through a wide breach, surging in like a flood, like a storm. Terrors turn against me; my dignity vanishes like the wind, and my prosperity passes away like a cloud. Now I will pour out my grief: days of affliction grip me tightly. At night pain pierces me to the bones, for the wounds that gnaw at me never sleep. He seizes my clothing violently and grips me by the collar of my tunic. He throws me into the mire, and I become like dust and ashes. I cry to you for help, but you pay no heed to me; I persist, and you merely stare at me. You have become my tormentor and attack me with your powerful arm. You lift me up, carry me about and toss me in the hurricane. I know that you are returning me to death, to the place where all the living are destined to meet. Does not a man stretch out his hand when he is sinking, or cry “Help!” in the midst of disaster? Did I not weep with the oppressed? Did I not have compassion on the poor? I waited for happiness, but misfortune came; I waited for light, but darkness came. My insides boil and will not be still; days of affliction come to meet me. I walk in gloom, far from the sun, and in the assembly I rise to cry for help. I have become a brother to jackals and a companion to ostriches. My skin blackens and falls from me; my bones burn with fever. My lyre has turned to mourning, and my flute accompanies the sound of weeping. |
