Job opens his mouth and curses the day he was born. He wishes that day would turn to darkness, that God would not seek it from above, that gloom would claim it and that no light would shine on it. He wants the night of his conception to be lost from the calendar and no one to sing for joy in it, because it did not shut the doors of the womb that carried him or hide trouble from his eyes.
Then he asks why he did not die at birth, why knees received him and breasts nursed him. Had he died, he would now lie quiet and asleep, alongside kings and counselors of the earth. In death the wicked cease their raging, the weary are at rest, prisoners no longer hear the taskmaster's voice and the slave is free from his master; small and great are the same.
Job ends with a question that runs through the whole book: why is light given to the one who suffers, and life to those bitter in soul, who long for a death that does not come and dig for it more than for hidden treasure? His way is hidden and God has fenced him in. His groans pour out like water, and what he feared has come upon him: he has no ease, no quiet and no rest, and trouble comes.