The Vales of Job

In the vales of Job,

Where shadows dance in courtyards,

We mourn for the lost.

We sit in sackcloth;

Groaning for the fallen house,

For the dead children.

In the vales of Job,

Scattered ashes mark the path,

And there is no sun. 

There is no music, 

And all the land is silent–

Silent for the lost. 

In the vales of Job,

Only the strangers wander;

They steal the gravestones. 

In the vales of Job,

There is no sound of laughter,

There is no shelter. 

The wind is strong here,

Darkness befalls us forthwith,

In the vales of Job. 

No dawn can be found;

There is no elation here.

The light has strayed far. 

In the vales of Job,

There is blood on the stonework,

And dust in the air. 

There’s fog in our throats, 

The sick scent of dead flowers,

The deep sense of loss. 

There, you can see Job:

His skin is red with boils,

His heart is heavy.

He sits on the graves

Of his departed children;

Tears are on his face. 

Then something rises

From the silence of the dark;

A song is brought forth. 

From the lips of Job,

The lips of the forgotten,

Come words of promise:

“My heart is trembling

And leaping out of its place

At the near thunder.

Surely rain will fall,

And moisten my dusty lips,

And give me true peace.”

There can yet be hope, 

Even in the vales of Job,

The land of the lost. 

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