Job's Contemptible Tormentors

Job 30:1-8

And now, laughed at me, Have the younger in days than I, Whose fathers I have loathed to set With the dogs of my flock.

Also--the power of their hands, why is it to me? On them hath old age perished.

With want and with famine gloomy, Those fleeing to a dry place, Formerly a desolation and waste,

Those cropping mallows near a shrub, And broom-roots is their food.

From the midst they are cast out, (They shout against them as a thief),

In a frightful place of valleys to dwell, Holes of earth and clefts.

Among shrubs they do groan, Under nettles they are gathered together.

Sons of folly--even sons without name, They have been smitten from the land.