Job of Uz, After the Storm

Job surveyed his fields

Thick with lambs and oxen.

His children skipped between them,

Dodging mudpies,

Singing tunes of praise.

Yet with the bounty intermingled

Ghosts of other sheep

And other children.

The Lord has given, Job thought,

But he has also taken away.

In life’s spring

We might be faithful.

A young man can keep his way pure.

Yet it is purity born

From an economy of oblation,

Somewhere between a handshake deal

And the good-natured arguments of friends.

Job was such a boy no more.

Purple clouds were swelling in the distance.

Job called his sons and daughters in to feast.

“God is good,” he told them

As they bowed around the laden table.

God is good.

He believed it,

But it was a goodness more alien

Than youthful piety could comprehend.

Outside the thunder stuttered syllables.

His sons dickered over veal,

Debating what was just and what was fair.

The lightning spoke a truer word.

Man does not argue with the whirlwind.

Our lot is necessary praises,

Creaturely humility,

And the consolation of friends.