My bed I make, and say unto the worm 

 Thou art my sister." 

 With unpitying voice 

 Not comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake. 

 "How long ere thou shalt make an end of words 

 So profitless and vain? Thou dost account 

 Us vile as beasts. But shall the stable earth 

 With all its rocks and mountains be removed 

 For thy good pleasure? 

 See, the light forsake 

 The wicked man. Darkness and loneliness 

 Enshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall be 

 Mid snares and traps, and his own counsel fail 

 To guide him safely. By the heel, the gin 

 Shall seize him, and the robber's hand prevail 

 To rifle and destroy his treasure hoard. 

 Secret misgivings feed upon his strength, 

 And terrors waste his courage. He shall find 

 In his own tabernacle no repose, 

 Nor confidence. His withering root shall draw 

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