"Then Job answered the Lord, and said, I know that Thou canst do everything, and that no thought
can be withheld from Thee. Who is he that hideth counsel without knowledge? therefore have I
uttered that I understood not; things too wonderful for me, which I knew not. Hear, I beseech
Thee, and I will speak; I will demand of Thee, and declare Thou unto me. I have heard of Thee
by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eye seeth Thee. Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in
dust and ashes" (Job 42:1-6).

Here, then, was the turning point in Job’s life. All his previous statements as to God and His ways
are now pronounced to be "words without knowledge." What a confession! What a moment in
man’s history when he discovers that he has been all wrong! What a thorough breakdown! What
profound humiliation! It reminds us of Jacob getting the hollow of his thigh touched, and thus
learning his utter weakness and nothingness. These are weighty moments in the history of
souls_great epochs, which leave an indelible impress on the whole moral being and character.
To get right thoughts about God is to begin to get right about everything. If I am wrong about
God, I am wrong about myself, wrong about my fellows, wrong about all.

Thus it was with Job. His new thoughts as to God were immediately connected with new thoughts
of himself; and hence we find that the elaborate self-vindication, the impassioned egotism, the
vehement self-gratulation, the lengthened arguments in self-defense_all is laid aside; all is
displaced by one short sentence of three words, "I am vile" (Job 40:4). And what is to be done
with this vile self? Talk about it? Set it up? Be occupied with it? Take counsel for it? Make
provision for it? No, "I abhor it."

This is the true moral ground for every one of us. Job took a long time to reach it, and so do we.
Many of us imagine that we have reached the end of self when we have given a nominal assent
to the doctrine of human depravity, or judged some of those sprouts which have appeared above
the surface of our practical life. But, alas! it is to be feared that very few of us indeed really know
the full truth about ourselves. It is one thing to say, "We are all vile," and quite another to feel,
deep down in the heart, that "I am vile." This latter can only be known and habitually realized in
the immediate presence of God. The two things must ever go together:"Mine eye seeth Thee,"
and "Wherefore I abhor myself." It is as the light of what God is shines in upon what I am that I
abhor myself. And then my self-abhorrence is a real thing. It is not in word, neither in tongue,
but in deed and in truth. It will be seen in a life of self-abnegation, a humble spirit, a lowly mind,
a gracious carriage in the midst of the scenes through which I am called to pass. It is of little use
to profess very low thoughts of self while, at the same time, we are quick to resent any injury
done to us, any fancied insult, slight, or disparagement. The true secret of a broken and contrite
heart is to abide ever in the divine presence, and then we are able to carry ourselves right toward
those with whom we have to do.

"Thus we find that when Job got right as to God and himself, he soon got right as to his friends,
for he learned to pray for them. Yes, he could pray for the "miserable comforters," the
"physicians of no value," the very men with whom he had so long, so stoutly, and so vehemently
contended! "And the Lord turned the captivity of Job when he prayed for his friends" (42:10).

This is morally beautiful. It is perfect. It is the rare and exquisite fruit of divine workmanship.
Nothing can be more touching than to see Job’s three friends exchanging their experience, their
tradition, and their legality for the precious "burnt-offering"; and to see our dear patriarch
exchanging his bitter invectives for the sweet prayer of charity. In short, it is a most soul-subduing
scene altogether. The combatants are in the dust before God and in each other’s arms. The strife
is ended; the war of words is closed; and instead thereof, we have the tears of repentance, the
sweet odor of the burnt-offering, the embrace of love.

(From "Job and His Friends" in Miscellaneous Writings, Vol. 1.)