The birds would laugh at Job, their song would
torture him. Always a steady rain fell, soaking
and chilling him. He could always see a dry, light
place on the horizon. He would walk for miles,
muttering, "I'm sure this rain won't last. I'm sure
it's time is up. Though it's pouring down, I'm sure
this rain won't last." As it fell on Job's eyes,
this water of doubt, he said, "I'm wading in lies,
it's wearing me out. But if you want it, all right.
I'll buy it."
The trees whispered to Job. The wind screamed,
"blood too dirty for mosquitos, I hope that you
die soon. Pray to any god you believe in."
One day, Job screamed back. "Those people, they had
families. Their families don't have them. You're not
any god I believe in. I hope the rain ruins the work
you did." At that moment, the clouds parted. Job
found himself in the sun. Job's god was left in
the storm that he'd created. He moaned, "I'm sure
this rain won't last. I'm sure it's time is up.
Though it's pouring down, I'm sure this rain
won't last."