Then Job arose, tore his robe, and shaved his head; and he fell to the ground and worshiped.

So Satan went out from the presence of the Lord, and struck Job with painful boils from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head.

And when they raised their eyes from afar, and did not recognize him, they lifted their voices and wept; and each one tore his robe and sprinkled dust on his head toward heaven.

If I am wicked, woe to me; Even if I am righteous, I cannot lift up my head. I am full of disgrace; See my misery!

If my head is exalted, You hunt me like a fierce lion, And again You show Yourself awesome against me.

For an empty-headed man will be wise, When a wild donkey’s colt is born a man.

I also could speak as you do, If your soul were in my soul’s place. I could heap up words against you, And shake my head at you;

“I have sewn sackcloth over my skin, And laid my head in the dust.

He has stripped me of my glory, And taken the crown from my head.

Though his haughtiness mounts up to the heavens, And his head reaches to the clouds,

They are exalted for a little while, Then they are gone. They are brought low; They are taken out of the way like all others; They dry out like the heads of grain.

When His lamp shone upon my head, And when by His light I walked through darkness;

Can you fill his skin with harpoons, Or his head with fishing spears?