Chapter 13

Eyes nor ears nor wits are wanting to me,

and I know all this as well as you, but I am still a match for you.

Or rather, it is to God, the omnipotent, I will speak; with him I remonstrate;

but first I would prove you what you are, unskilful plasterers all of you, that follow false rules of your craft.

Would you but hold your tongues once for all! It were your best wisdom.

Listen while I refute you; mark well what are my pleadings.

Do you think God stands in need of your shifts, your lying advocacy?

Are you God’s hired partisans, resolved to acquit him?

Why then, beware of his own infallible scrutiny; think you he will be blinded, as men are blinded, by your sophistries?

Nay, he himself will be the first to blame you for wrongful attachment to his cause;

your turn, then, to fear every movement of his, to cower before his terrors!

Your wise memories will vanish into dust, your pride will prove to be a thing of clay.

Nay, hold your tongues for a little, while I say out my mind.

Do not ask why I set my teeth so firmly,1 take my life in my hand;

let him slay me if he will! I await his decree;2 needs must that I should make my defence before him,

and spare me he will; let the guilty shun his presence, not I.

Nay, hear me out; let me open my mind in full;

should I stand my trial, I know that I must be found innocent!

Only let me meet my accuser! Why must I die unheard?

But two rights I claim, if I am to face thee openly;

withdraw thy chastising hand, and daunt me with thy terrors no longer.

Then, if thou wilt call me in question, I will make reply; or let me speak, and be thou ready with thy answer.

Tell me, what are all these transgressions, these faults thou findest in me? What crime, what wrong-doing is mine?

Why is it that thou turnest thy back on me, and wilt treat me as an enemy?

As well wrestle with a flying leaf, chase a wisp of straw,

as keep this jealous record against me, tax me with the offences of my youth!

To hold me so close a prisoner, watch me wherever I go, track my foot-prints,

when I am no better than rotting carrion, than a garment fretted away by the moth!