Job prayed:“Here’s what I want to say:Don’t, God, bring in a verdict of guiltywithout letting me know the charges you’re bringing.How does this fit into what you once called ‘good’—giving me a hard time, spurning me,a life you shaped by your very own hands,and then blessing the plots of the wicked?You don’t look at things the way we mortals do.You’re not taken in by appearances, are you?Unlike us, you’re not working against a deadline.You have all eternity to work things out.So what’s this all about, anyway—this compulsionto dig up some dirt, to find some skeleton in my closet?You know good and well I’m not guilty.You also know no one can help me.