The birds would laugh at Job,
their song would torture him.
Always, a steady rain fell,
soaking and chilling him.
He could always see a dry, light place on the horizon.
He would walk for miles, muttering,
I m sure this rain won t last.
I m sure it s time is up.
Though it s pouring down, I m sure this rain won t last.
As it fell on Job s eyes, this water of doubt,
he said, "I m wading in lies, it s wearing me out.
But if you want it, all right.
I ll buy it." The trees whispered to Job.
The wind screamed, "blood too dirty for mosquitoes,
I hope that you die soon.
Pray to any god you believe in.
One day, Job screamed back. "Those people, they had families.
Their families don t have them. You re not any god I believe in.
I hope the rain ruins the work you did.
At that moment, the clouds parted.
Job found himself in the sun.
Job s god was left in the storm that he d created.
He moaned, "I m sure this rain won t last.
I m sure it s time is up. Though it s pouring down,
I m sure this rain won t last."
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