Job 3

For seven days and seven nights Job and his friends had sat on the ground together in unbroken silence, for they saw that his grief was very great (2:13). No one spoke, because there were no words equal to what had happened. And then, at last, the silence breaks - and the first words out of Job's mouth after a week of speechless agony are these. It matters where the chapter sits. This is not the reaction of the first shock; that came earlier, when Job tore his robe and fell to the ground and worshipped, blessing the name of the LORD even as the messengers of disaster arrived one upon another. This is what comes after - after the numbness wears off, after the days drag on, after the body's sores and the heart's emptiness have had a week to settle into something permanent. Grief has a long second act, and Job 3 is its voice. The man who blessed God in the first hour now opens his mouth and curses the day he was born. Both are true of him. Both belong to faith under the weight of loss.⁴

The text is careful, and we should be careful with it: Job cursed his day. Not God - his day. The narrator who has watched everything will not let us misread this. In the chapters before, the accuser had wagered that suffering would drive Job to curse thee to thy face (1:11; 2:5), and twice now Job has refused: he sinned not, nor charged God foolishly (1:22), and he did not sin with his lips (2:10). That refusal still holds here. What Job curses is the day of his own birth, the hour his existence began - an anguish turned not upward against his Maker but inward against the fact of his own life. There is a vast difference between cursing God and cursing one's own birthday, and the whole moral weight of the book depends on keeping the two apart. Job's lament is dark beyond anything most of us have voiced, but it is not blasphemy. It is the cry of a man who has reached the bottom and found, even there, that he will not turn against the God he cannot understand. He curses his day. He does not curse his God.³

The lament opens at full intensity: Let the day perish wherein I was born. This is not a passing wish that things had gone differently; it is a curse pronounced upon a fixed point in the past, an attempt to reach back through time and unmake the very day his life began. Job piles image on image to do it. Let that day be darkness; let God Himself not regard it from above; let no light shine on it; let the shadow of death stain it, a cloud dwell on it, the blackness of the day terrify it. The poetry deliberately undoes the first page of Scripture - where God said Let there be light and saw the day was good, Job says of his own day, let there be darkness, let it be ungood, let it never have been counted among the days God made. He even prays the night of his conception out of the calendar: let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months. What Job is reaching for is not death so much as never-having-been - the erasure of the hour that gave him a life now too painful to hold.

Verse 8 calls on those ready to raise up their mourning - a difficult line that has drawn careful attention.³ The picture is of professional lamenters, those skilled in cursing days of ill omen, perhaps even those thought able to rouse the great chaos at the edge of the world; Job summons every power that knows how to call down darkness and bids them all turn their art upon the night of his birth. He wants that night cursed by experts in cursing, mourned by those whose trade is mourning. The reason finally arrives in verse 10, and it is the most human line in the section: he curses the day because it shut not up the doors of my mother's womb, nor hid sorrow from mine eyes. The whole towering curse comes down, in the end, to a son's grief that he was ever born to see what he has now seen. The womb opened; the light came in; and with the light came the sorrow he would have given anything not to know.

The lament now turns from the day of birth to the moment just after it, and the questions grow quieter and more terrible. Why died I not from the womb? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? If he had to be born, Job asks, why was he not allowed to die at once? Why did the knees receive him - the gesture by which a newborn was lifted up and acknowledged into the family - and why the breasts that nursed him into a life he now wishes had never continued? Every ordinary mercy of infancy, the welcome and the feeding and the keeping-alive, Job re-reads through his grief as a kindness he would rather have been spared. This is the strange logic of deep suffering: it turns the gifts of life into grievances, because each one only prolonged the existence that has become unbearable. He is not, in this moment, able to be grateful that he lived. He can only ask why he was not let go at the very start.

And then, in verses 13 through 19, Job does something that can frighten a reader who has never been where he is: he begins to describe death as rest, and to describe it with a kind of longing. For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest. Notice the verbs - lain still, been quiet, slept, at rest. The grave, to a man in unrelenting torment, presents itself not as terror but as the one place the torment finally stops. There he would lie down with kings and counsellors, with princes that had gold - the great ones whose monuments and treasure could not keep them from the common bed of the dead. He would be as an hidden untimely birth, as the infants who never saw light and so never knew pain. It is essential to hear what Job is and is not saying. He is not contemplating taking his own life; he is wishing, backward, that his life had ended before the suffering began. And the appeal of the grave for him is entirely negative - not that death holds some joy, but that it holds the absence of this. When pain is total, the cessation of pain can look like the only mercy left.

What Job sees in the grave, beyond rest, is a great and terrible equality. There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor. The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master. In the world above, there are oppressors and oppressed, masters and slaves, the powerful and the powerless - and the weak have no escape from the strong. But death levels all of it. The prisoner no longer hears the overseer's shout. The small and the great lie down side by side, their ranks erased. The servant, who in life could never be free, is free at last. There is real social ache in these lines: Job, who had himself been great and is now reduced to the ash-heap, sees in the grave the one place where the injustices that crush people in life are finally undone. It is a bleak comfort - the equality of the dead is not the equality the heart truly longs for - but it is the only undoing of oppression Job can see from where he sits. He longs for the grave not because it is good but because it is, at least, the end of being ground down.

The section ends on its most arresting image: the servant is free from his master. In the household world Job knew, a servant belonged to another; his time, his labor, his very body were not his own, and there was no door out but death. Job, looking at the grave, sees that door swing open: there the bond is dissolved, the ownership ends, the servant walks free. It is the freedom of the powerless that the world above never grants them. And there is something almost unbearably poignant in a man who once stood among the great now finding his comfort in the liberty of the lowest - for in his suffering Job has been brought low, made as helpless as any bondservant, and the only emancipation he can imagine is the one the grave gives to all alike. The longing for death here is, at bottom, a longing for freedom: freedom from pain, from oppression, from a life that has become a kind of bondage to grief. Job does not yet know - the book will not tell him for many chapters, and Scripture will not tell its readers in full until a tomb stands empty - that the freedom he craves was never meant to be found only on the other side of dying.

The lament now rises into its great question, the one that will not stop echoing through the rest of the book and through every age of human suffering since: Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul? “Light” here means life itself - to see the light is to be alive - and Job is asking why God gives the gift of living to those for whom living has become only pain. It is no longer just his own birthday he is questioning; he widens the cry to take in all the wretched, all the bitter in soul, all who suffer past the point where life feels like a gift. Why are they kept alive? Why is breath spent on those who taste only gall? This is the hardest of all the questions a sufferer asks, because it is not really a request for information - it is a protest, an ache flung up at the sky. Job does not expect an answer in these verses, and he does not get one. He is simply naming, with terrible honesty, the thing that misery makes a person feel: that the continuation of life can itself become the heart of the suffering.

Job presses the picture further, and it grows almost unbearable in its accuracy: there are those who long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures; which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave. He describes a longing for death as fierce as a treasure-hunter's greed - men digging for the grave the way others dig for buried gold, and overjoyed, in a dark and broken way, when at last they find it. This is the voice of suffering so deep that death has stopped being feared and started being wanted. It is one of the most candid descriptions in all of Scripture of what unrelieved pain does to the will to live, and the Bible neither flinches from it nor scolds it. It simply records it, in the mouth of a righteous man, as the truth of where he is. To read these verses honestly is to be given permission to admit that such a place exists - and a quiet assurance that a person can be there and still be held within faith, still be heard, still be loved by the God who let the words be written down.

Then Job turns the language of blessing inside out. Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in? The image is sharp for anyone who remembers how the book began. In the first chapter, the accuser had complained that God had made an hedge about Job - a hedge of protection, fencing him round with blessing so that no harm could reach him (1:10). Now Job uses the very same picture, but every line of it has reversed: the hedge that once kept evil out has become a hedge that pens him in, a wall closing off every path, so that his way is hid and he cannot find the way forward or the way out. The same God, the same hedging - but where it once felt like shelter it now feels like a trap. This is what suffering does to the experience of God's nearness: the providence that once seemed all kindness can come to feel like confinement. Job is not denying that God surrounds him. He is saying that the surrounding has become unbearable, and he cannot see past it. And still - this is the wonder of the chapter - he says it to God, keeping even his sense of being trapped within the bounds of a relationship he will not abandon.

Before the final word, Job gives us the physical texture of his grief: For my sighing cometh before I eat, and my roarings are poured out like the waters. The sighing comes before the food - that is, his groaning is more constant than his meals, the sigh rising in him sooner and more surely than hunger. And his roarings - the word is strong, the bellowing of an animal in pain - pour out of him like the waters, not in measured tears but in a flood that cannot be dammed. This is grief in the body, not just the mind: the involuntary groan, the cry that will not be held back, the weeping that comes in waves. Job is showing us that his lament is not a posture or an argument; it is what is actually happening to him, hour by hour, at the table and in the night. And the chapter has earned the right to show it, because it has refused all along to pretend that faithful suffering is quiet and composed. Sometimes the faithful roar. Sometimes the sighing comes before the bread.