Job 24
Job Asks Why the Wicked Are Not Punished
or
When Will the Wicked?
based on Job 24
why doesn’t the Almighty bring the wicked to judgment
Job 24:1
Job 24:1
When will God reserve times to judge wicked men's crimes?
Are we waiting in vain — who can tell?
They move landmark and stone to take land they don't own,
to feed livestock they've stolen as well.
They drive donkeys away to the orphans' dismay;
take the widow's lone ox for a pledge.
Push the needy aside, make the poor run and hide;
force the broken to live on the edge.
As wild asses they roam, making deserts their home,
from the wasteland their children are fed.
And they gather the yield from another man's field;
in the wicked's own vineyard they tread.
With no clothes to their name, they sleep naked in shame;
without shelter, no shield from the cold.
They are chilled even more when the mountain rains pour
on the rock which they cling to and hold.
And the infant is wrest from the poor widow's breast,
and her children are seized for a debt.
Their indignity grows as they go without clothes;
though they harvest — their hunger's not met.
By them, olives are crushed and the wine grapes are mushed,
but they never are offered a taste.
From the city, men groan and the wounded souls moan,
but their crying to God is a waste.
For the wicked defy and they openly try
to reject all the ways of the light.
It's when daylight has gone that the killer moves on
to the poor — like a thief in the night.
The adulterer waits for the twilight, and states,
I'm unseen, with his face turned away.
In the night homes have theft, by the morning they've left,
for thieves hide in the light of the day.
And their midnight's the same as if morning light came;
with the shadows of death, they're allied.
They're but foam on the surf; all they own on this earth
has been cursed, so their vineyards have died.
Whereas drought and the heat melt the snow in the street,
so the graves snatch the wicked who sin.
Their own mothers forgot but the maggots have not,
and the worms make a feast of their skin.
Any glory before is remembered no more;
like a tree that a windstorm would fell.
They will swindle the one who has not borne a son,
and treat harshly the widow as well.
Dragged away by God's pow'r — they may prosper an hour,
but have not been assured of their days.
He may give them a rest; it might seem like they're blessed,
but God's eyes have been watching their ways.
They may rise, but they'll fall — whether greater or small
God will cut them like heads off of grain.
If you think this untrue then I leave it to you;
if you think that I've lied, then explain.
Are we waiting in vain — who can tell?
They move landmark and stone to take land they don't own,
to feed livestock they've stolen as well.
They drive donkeys away to the orphans' dismay;
take the widow's lone ox for a pledge.
Push the needy aside, make the poor run and hide;
force the broken to live on the edge.
As wild asses they roam, making deserts their home,
from the wasteland their children are fed.
And they gather the yield from another man's field;
in the wicked's own vineyard they tread.
With no clothes to their name, they sleep naked in shame;
without shelter, no shield from the cold.
They are chilled even more when the mountain rains pour
on the rock which they cling to and hold.
And the infant is wrest from the poor widow's breast,
and her children are seized for a debt.
Their indignity grows as they go without clothes;
though they harvest — their hunger's not met.
By them, olives are crushed and the wine grapes are mushed,
but they never are offered a taste.
From the city, men groan and the wounded souls moan,
but their crying to God is a waste.
For the wicked defy and they openly try
to reject all the ways of the light.
It's when daylight has gone that the killer moves on
to the poor — like a thief in the night.
The adulterer waits for the twilight, and states,
I'm unseen, with his face turned away.
In the night homes have theft, by the morning they've left,
for thieves hide in the light of the day.
And their midnight's the same as if morning light came;
with the shadows of death, they're allied.
They're but foam on the surf; all they own on this earth
has been cursed, so their vineyards have died.
Whereas drought and the heat melt the snow in the street,
so the graves snatch the wicked who sin.
Their own mothers forgot but the maggots have not,
and the worms make a feast of their skin.
Any glory before is remembered no more;
like a tree that a windstorm would fell.
They will swindle the one who has not borne a son,
and treat harshly the widow as well.
Dragged away by God's pow'r — they may prosper an hour,
but have not been assured of their days.
He may give them a rest; it might seem like they're blessed,
but God's eyes have been watching their ways.
They may rise, but they'll fall — whether greater or small
God will cut them like heads off of grain.
If you think this untrue then I leave it to you;
if you think that I've lied, then explain.
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