Job took a deep breath and prepared for his final rest. His body, still burning from the rotten cocoon of disease enshrouding his entire body, lay exposed to the night air circulating through the sides of the tent, which were partially lifted for that purpose.
As the dark night was fading into dreamless oblivion, the faint sound of footsteps stirred Job from his slumber.
“You think your friends are mindless like cattle.” The distinctive voice of Bildad lifted the shade of Job’s peace, but even in the starry dark, neither men could discern the features of the other.
“You’ve thrown your tantrum, and you expect the whole world to crumble and fall. Your tent is pitch black because the light of the wicked has been quashed. You tripped up somewhere on the path, and now terrors come at you from every direction.
“Your sin gnaws at you like the disease consuming your skin. Here in your bedchamber, nothing is left but smoking sulfur. Your roots are shriveled, and your branches have withered. With no child left, your memory will fade into the dust of the hills.”