Job begins by asking that his grief and calamity be weighed on scales: they would be heavier than the sand of the sea, which is why his words have been so rash. The arrows of the Almighty are in him and his spirit drinks their poison; the terrors of God are arrayed against him. He asks whether a wild donkey brays when it has grass, or whether tasteless food is eaten without salt. His appetite has turned to loathing, and his food makes him sick.
Then he voices his deepest wish: that God would grant his request and put an end to him. That would still be his comfort and joy in unrelenting pain, because he has not denied the words of the Holy One. But he has no strength to wait and no reason to be patient: is his strength the strength of stones, or is his flesh bronze?
Now he turns to his friends. A person who is suffering deserves loyalty from his friends, even if he forsakes the fear of the Almighty. But his brothers are treacherous like winter torrents, dark with ice and snow, that vanish in the heat. Caravans of Tema and Sheba that look for water are put to shame when they arrive. You have become like that, says Job: you see the horror and are afraid.
Job ends by asking them to teach him and show him his error, and not to speak into the wind. Honest words are painful, but what do their arguments prove? He asks them to turn and look at him, for he will not lie to their faces. Let there be no injustice: his cause is still righteous.