Lament of A Job

Cast no lots for my stricken soul;

you devils over us:

You who are cut from one cloth and exact an equal toll.

One, bereft of guile and secret goal,

has made impotent your immortal works.

Cast no lots for my stricken soul.

No longer do I forfeit control

to those above or those below,

you who are cut from one cloth and exact an equal toll.

Cast your gaze upon that distant shoal,

and see me scramble from the trap you set, and

Cast no lots for my stricken soul.

The boils, scrubbed with coal;

yet, the scars remain, to mark the evil done by

you who are cut from one cloth and exact an equal toll.

A gift you could not make has made me whole,

I am entrusted with a purpose beyond all our shallow intent.

Cast no lots for my stricken soul.

You who are cut from one cloth and exact an equal toll.