Excellence In Poetry— Ode Selected from Job: Chapters 38, 39, 40, and 41
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Ode Selected from Job: Chapters 38, 39, 40, and 41
Mikhail Lomonosov
You, man, who in your sorrow make
Your plaints, repining against God,
Now hearken to His wrath that spake
To Job out of the whirlwind cloud;
He, in whose voice the thunders drowned,
Flashed bright in the rain, hail, and wind,
His words rattling the firmament,
Summoning Job to argument:
Come, muster all your strength, stand bold
There where you are, and answer me.
Where were you when this splendid world
I built with laws of harmony?
When I installed this Planet Earth
And hosts of angels sang in chorus
My greatness, my authority,
Did they hail your wizardry too?
Where were you when, by my sole grace,
stars in unnumbered myriads
filled the enormity of space,
seeming as tiny blinking dots,
to eulogize my majesty;
when the first sunrays lit the sky;
or when the silvery, less bright
first beams of moonlight filled the night?
Who set a limit to the ocean,
locking its body in its shores,
barring the waves from further motion
whenever they reached one of those?
Who grasped the night-engulfed abyss,
Wiped its wet face to clear the mists?
Wait, was it not my potent hand
That drained the ocean from dry land?
Have you, if only once, been able
To set the hour for dawn to burst;
Or let rainclouds out of their stable
When sun-parched wheat fields swooned with thirst;
Or send a fair wind to a sail,
That it may reach without travail?
Or make the earth’s crust heave and quake,
The godless tribes from it to shake?
Have you, through flowing passageways,
Traversed the depths of the blue sea,
Numbering all the various
Beings surpassing fantasy?
Was it before your face the gate
Of death, hid in a haze by fate,
Unlocked its locks and open fell?
Did your word seal the lips of Hell?
Do you know, mortal, how to spin
A whirlwind raincloud round about
To veil the sun, thicken the thin
Transparent air, hammering out
A bolt of lighting’s fulgent flash,
With a mountainheart-shaking crash,
Rock by its ends the universe,
Announcing unto man your wrath?
Is it thanks to your ken and wit
The eagle flies to yonder heights
That spreads his wings upon the wind
Spying precisely from the skies
What food hides in the crystal flow
Of all the seas and brooks below,
Eyeing his prey from up on high:
Did you equip him with that quick eye?
Behold the woodland Behemoth,
Whom I made, as I did you, too:
It is his pleasure to tread blackthorns,
Unharmèd, with his hefty foot.
He’s musclebound along his length,
Go test your strength against his strength,
But better weigh your pros and cons:
His ribs are awesome, solid bronze!
Go pull ashore Leviathan
With your familiar fishing rod!
He in the middle of the ocean
Runs swiftly, but of whose accord?
Lavishly tiled with whale-sized scales
As if with shields the size of whales,
Your spear, your sword, your mallet—weeds
Considers he, or rotten reeds.
His thudding heart a monster millstone,
His sharp teeth set sickle to sickle,
Care to dare go and stick your arms in?
He, ever willing to do battle,
Resting on rocks of pointy sharpness,
Contemptuous of their harsh hardness,
Considers them the softest silt
Next to how he himself is built.
When he is charging into battle,
The waters simmer like a soup pan,
His throat a furnace, his scales rattle,
His flames reflecting off the ocean,
His eyes two ample swimming pools
Filled to the brim with flaming coals;
If he can scare the strong, who can
Arise and stand against me, man?
When I was out upon my mission
To build the world the way I would,
Did I, dear sir, beg your permission
For doings of such magnitude?
When I upon the week’s sixth day
Fashioned you from a piece of clay,
Why did you not at the time say:
“Give me different shape, I pray”?
Reflecting on this, mortal soul,
Imagine your creator’s might,
And, honoring His sacred will,
In patience learn to find respite.
He plans everything for our best,
Whoe’er is slain or laid to rest.
Pray you may. You may not demand.
When praying, dare not reprimand.
(Between 1743 and 1751)
From The Wheel Poetry Desk
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