Upon His throne, the Lord was bored one Tuesday afternoon.
He looked for some amusement, to lighten up His gloom.
"Hey, Satan," He did boast in Lordly style. "See that chap with all the riches?
He's the kind what makes it all worth while, loves Me from wig to britches."
Satan took a gander, yawned; he wasn't well-impressed.
"To love one's Lord is easy, when in finery one's dressed."
The Lord glanced Satan's way, from the corner of His eye;
If He led this chat just right there'd be amusement, by and by.
"I don't quite get your meaning, can't you see Job loves Me well?
Don't beat around the bush old chap. Spit it out, and plainly tell.
D'you say that Job don't love Me true? D'you say that he don't trust Me?"
Satan rolled his eyes and yawned again, and then he uttered thusly:
"If a man is heaped in treasures, Lord love me, that's no test.
If he lost it all then surely he'd not count himself so blessed,
If he were stony-broke and starved, no friend to call his own.
His love for you is no great show; he hasn't cause to moan."
"You've got yourself a bet," the Lord exclaimed in sudden cheer.
"The winner gets to gloat for weeks; the loser buys the beer.
Take his oxen, take his asses, kill his servants and his brats
And just for lulz let's give him boils and see, then, how he acts."
Well, Job was pretty miffed at first—and surely he'd the right—
At his treatment by his Lord when he'd done nowt but doing right.
But after arguments with neighbours and when he'd thought a bit
He came to think the Lord could do just as the Lord saw fit.
"It's not my place to second-guess," this pious chap did say.
"Mere mortal, I'll not judge Him, I should let Him have His way.
And though He makes me swallow the bitterest of pills
I'll trust He knows what He's about and yes, I'll love Him still."
And so the happy ending; Job's life it was restored.
He got more lands and livestock too, and children by the score.
And the Lord did boast and gloat on high as He rehashed the tale,
And they wandered off to the Pearly Pub, where Satan bought the ale.
But whoa! Back up! Reverse a bit! This cheer we should eschew
'cause things don't look so rosy from another point of view.
Job may have more servants, but his first are dead and cold;
His children too are lying stiff and never will grow old.
There's no happy ending, no moral to espouse,
No matter Job may think the Lord has justified his vows.
Nor should we call God loving while these charges go unmet;
That he killed all of those innocents
For nought but idle bet.
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