But now. These words mark a transition. Job turns from complaints against his "comforters" to an enumeration of his own sufferings. He hath made me weary. God has afflicted him with an intolerable sense of weariness.
He is tired of life; tired of disputing with his friends; tired even of pouring out his lamentations and complaints and expostulations to God. His one desire is rest. So I have seen in the piombi of Venice, where political prisoners were tortured by cold and heat, and hunger and thirst, for long weeks or months, and brought to despair, such scratchings as the following: "Luigi A.