“Curse the day on which I was born!
From all of history, let it be shorn!
May the sun turn its face and from it hide.
Let only darkness on that day abide.
O that on the day I was granted breath,
I had emerged instead, as still as death.
For had I not been born at birth,
I’d be at rest ‘neath the sands of earth,
There all men find cease from toil,
And become as the ground, as dust and soil.
Why, Oh Grave, do you mock? Why wait?
I long to escape and embrace my fate.
Must I endure Life’s endless measure,
When truly it is Death I treasure?
The bitter in soul long for Death to arrive,
And mourn in their misery to still be alive.
Hear me, Oh Death, and hearken my voice.
On the day you arrive I can finally rejoice.
My bones say, “eat.” Yet I can only sigh.
My throat bids, “drink.” But all I do is cry.
I have no peace, no rest, no tomorrow.
No soul, nor dream, I only have sorrow.
I no longer fear, for my fears have come true.
Oh, Death, can’t you hear? I am calling for you?”
— In all that was said, in all that was heard.
Job did not sin by any word.
Job cursed his life, he cursed his birth.
Yet cursed he not God o’er all the earth.
Tell me, have you considered this man?
There is none like him in all the land.
© Dr. Phil Bryant