ْ‫العذاب‬ َ ‫لك الحم ُد مھما استطا َل‬ َ Praise be to thee what ere agonies prevail,

‫َو َم ْھ َما اسْ َت َب َّد األلـ ْم‬ And sufferings assail,

Praise be to thee.
‫ إنَّ الرزايا ِعطا ْء‬،‫الح ْم ُد‬ َ ‫لك‬ َ Calamities are thy gift given.
‫ت َبعْ ضُ ال َك َر ْم‬ ِ ‫َوإنَّ ال ُمصيبا‬ Misfortunes thy kindness shown.
‫ت َھذا الظال ْم‬ َ ‫أل ْم ُتعطني أ ْن‬ Hast not thou granted me this darkness,
َ ‫َوأعْ َط ْي َتني‬
This dark hope before the dawn?
‫أنت ھذا ال َّس َحرْ ؟‬ Is this not thy gift to me?
ْ‫طر ال َمطر‬ َ ‫َف َھ ْل َت ْش ُك ُر األرضُ َق‬ The land that drinks the falling rain,
‫الغ َما ْم؟‬ َ ‫َو َت ْغضِ بُ إنْ ل ْم َي ِج ْد َھا‬ Does it offer thanks again?
And when the clouds their cover fails,
ْ‫شھو ٌر طِ وا ٌل َوھذي ال ِجراح‬ Does the land complain?
‫ُت َم ّز ُق َج ْنبي ِمث َل ال ُمدَ ى‬ Months so long and these long wounds of mine
ْ‫َوال َي ْھدَ أ الدا ُء عِ ْندَ الصباح‬ Like daggers tear my side;
َ ‫وال َي ْم َس ُح اللّي ُل ْأو َجا َع ُه‬
‫بالردَ ى‬ Their sickness morning cannot calm,
Nor can their pain death’s evening hide.
: ْ‫اح صاح‬ َ ‫ص‬ َ ْ‫َولكنّ أيّوبْ إن‬ But should Job cry, he cries,
‫الرزايا َندَ ى‬ َ َّ‫ إن‬،‫لك الح ْم ُد‬ َ “Praise be to thee.”
ْ‫َوإنّ ال ِجرا َح َھدَ ايا الحبيب‬ Calamities are my morning dew,
These wounds, my Lover’s gift to me,
‫ص ْد ِر َباقا ِت َھا‬ ِّ ‫ض ُّم إلى ال‬ ُ ‫أ‬ And to my breast I gather them,
ْ‫اياك في خافِقي ال َتغيب‬ َ َ‫َھد‬ Thy gifts within my heart remain,
‫ ھا ِت َھا‬.‫قبولة‬ ٌ ‫اياك َم‬ َ َ‫َھد‬ Thy gifts embraced. Show them again.
ْ‫أ ُش ُّد ِجراحي َوأھْ ِتف‬ I possess my wounds
And hail them who return,
:‫بالعائدين‬
ْ “Look with envy upon my state!
‫ظ ُروا َواحْ ُس ُدوني‬ ُ ‫أال َفا ْن‬ These are my Lover’s wounds.”
‫َف َھ ِذي َھدَ ايا حبيبي‬ In sleepless beauty tend I the skies,
With watchful eye till stars do fall,
ْ‫جمي ٌل ُھ َو ال ُّس ْھ ُد أرْ َعى َس َماك‬ Thy splendor from my window reach,
‫ِب َع ْي َنيَّ حتى َتغيبُ ال ُن ُجو ْم‬ How beautiful the night—
‫ك داري سناك‬ َ ‫َو َيل َمسُ ُشبّا‬ The Owl’s echoed song doth call,
While from afar carriage horns do sound,
‫جمي ٌل ُھ َو الل ْي ُل أصْ دَ ا ُء ُبو ْم‬ As do sickly cries abound,
ْ ‫ارةٍ ِمنْ َب‬
‫عيد‬ َ ‫أبواق َس َي‬ُ ‫َو‬ While mothers to their sons repeat
‫عيد‬ ُ
ْ ‫ َوأ ٌم ت‬،‫ضى‬ َ ْ‫َوآھات َمر‬ ُ Ancestral legends tall,
ْ
‫للوليد‬ ‫أساطير آبا ِئ َھا‬
َ And clouds, the sleepless night a forest make,
Veil the sky’s dim face,
‫ت ل ْي ِل السُّھا ِد ال ُغ ُيو ْم‬ ِ ‫َو َغا َبا‬ And beneath the moon doth polish well—
‫َتحْ ُجبُ َوجْ َه ال َّس َما ْء‬ Then should Job cry, his cry appealing,
ْ‫ت القمر‬ َ ْ‫َوتجلوه َتح‬ “Praise be to thee. Thy providential arrows fly,
:‫كان ال َندَ ا ْء‬ َ ‫صاح أ ّيوب‬ َ ْ‫َوإن‬ Then thy quill inscribes my healing.”

ْ‫لك الحم ُد يا رام ًيا بالقدر‬ َ

‫َويا كات ًبا بعدَ ذاك ال ّشفا ْء‬

‫ سفر أيوب‬:‫قصيدة‬
‫للشاعر بدر شاكر السياب‬