Nth Degree Job Poem

When I am
hurting like Job–
children gone, job over,
health ravaged–
friends may come and sit
quietly in sympathy,
in empathy awhile,
as Job’s three friends sat
mute with him for a week,
before spouting condescending
reasoning that loads on blame.

Will anyone accept
my refusal to give up,
remembering Job’s endurance
when his wife advised
Curse God and die?

Will I stay sane,
pleading against
divine silence
till I enter the vast whirlwind
where nothing past matters
for I am reborn to see, and finally
hear God’s voice?

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