If any were so rash as to challenge him for reasons.
One in a thousand would be more than that they could answer.
Job was his for all seasons.
For fate was as fickle as any dancer.

If disaster struck.
Could I be so sanguine.
I know I would never be a man of such pluck.
Hope would be left hanging.

Could I be reassured wherever disaster came on this scale.
Could I just say his works are beyond all reckoning.
Would I wail.
Would I reject his mercy beckoning.

In the end the book of Job is reassurance.
From cruel fate can come reassurance.