Job 7: The God Who Won’t Answer

“Have I sinned? What have I done to You, O watcher of men? Why have You set me as Your target, so that I am a burden to myself?” — Job 7:17-18

A Shift in Focus: From Friends to God

Having rebuked Eliphaz for his failure to offer mercy, Job now lifts his eyes from the ash heap to Heaven. This chapter shifts from horizontal frustration to vertical agony. This is no longer a response to man—it is now a lament directed at God Himself. And in this lament, Job wrestles not merely with grief but with the haunting silence of the Almighty.

It is one thing to suffer at the hands of nature or evil men. But Job believes his suffering is from God. He does not see Satan in the courtroom of Heaven. All he sees is pain and a God who will not speak. This chapter, therefore, becomes a sacred articulation of the believer’s deepest question: Why does God seem so absent when I need Him most?

When human comfort fails, as it did for Job, our pain often redirects us toward God—not because we’ve found better answers but because we can no longer pretend anyone else holds them. If your cries to people have been met with oppressive silence (one that says, “Do not speak your grief”), avoidance, or cold logic, know God’s silence is different. He may not respond in the ways you expect, but He does not ignore your voice. Like Job, you may find yourself speaking directly to God, not because you’re ready but because you’re desperate. That desperation is not spiritual immaturity; it’s the honesty of a soul too tired to keep up appearances.

God welcomes those who speak from the pit. You do not have to clean your words before addressing Him. If your friends or family don’t understand, God does. If your grief feels unwelcome at the tables of others, it is welcome before the Lord’s Table—the throne of grace. The shift from seeking comfort in others to crying out to God may feel like a last resort, but in truth, it’s an act of faith. Job’s words, though wounded, are a form of worship—a soul refusing to turn away even when God feels distant. And in that turning, however raw, the Redeemer draws near.

Life as a Burden, Days Without Hope

Job begins by comparing life to forced labor: “Is there not a time of hard service for man on Earth? Are not his days also like the days of a hired man?” (v. 1). The metaphor is blunt—life feels like indentured servitude. Job does not wake each day with purpose but with exhaustion. He describes sleepless nights filled with discomfort: “When I lie down, I say, ‘When shall I arise, and the night be ended?’ For I have had my fill of tossing till dawn” (v. 4). These are the words of one who suffers not only physically but also psychologically. Time itself becomes oppressive. Rest is denied.

He continues, “My flesh is caked with worms and dust, my skin is cracked and breaks out afresh” (v. 5). His description is graphic and literal, his body seeming like it’s no longer his own. Thus, he concludes, “My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are spent without hope” (v. 6). This is not hyperbole; it is the honesty of a man who feels that even time has turned against him. The future offers no relief—only continued affliction.

Here, Job gives voice to the despair that so often accompanies chronic suffering, depression, or trauma. He is not only wounded in the body but crushed in the spirit as well.

You might know what it is to wake up weary and go to bed dreading the next day. If so, Job’s words are more than ancient poetry—they are a mirror. When he says, “My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are spent without hope” (v. 6), he gives voice to the silent sorrow so many carry. Depression, chronic pain, deep grief—these can all warp time itself. Days blur, nights stretch, and hope feels like a distant memory. In these verses, God does not shame your struggle; He sanctifies it by placing it on the lips of His servant Job.

If that’s where you are—breathing, but barely—know this: Scripture does not demand you snap out of it. God does not say, “Get over it,” but rather, “The LORD is near to those who have a broken heart and saves such as have a contrite spirit” (Psalm 34:18). When life feels like a burden and your prayers are thin signs, you are not disqualified from grace. Rather, such suffering qualifies you for His grace. The Christian life is not marked by constant joy but by a constant Savior, and He does not wait for you at the finish line. He walks with you through the valley—through slow mornings, restless nights, and burdensome hours—and He will not let you go (John 10:28).

A Cry to the God Who Watches

In verses 7-10, Job pleads for God to remember the brevity of life: “Oh, remember that my life is a breath! My eye will never again see good” (v. 7). He acknowledges the finality of death: “The eye of him who sees me will see me no more; while your eyes are upon me, I shall no longer be. As the cloud disappears and vanishes away, so he who goes down to the grave does not come up” (vv. 8-9). This is not a denial of the resurrection—it’s a recognition that once death comes, the opportunity for divine vindication will be lost from the earthly perspective. Job longs for God to act now, before it’s too late.

The most painful section begins in verse 11: “Therefore, I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.” Job feels obligated to speak, for he cannot keep bottling up his agony. He’s not trying to blaspheme—he is simply trying to survive.

Then comes the bitter question: “Am I a sea, or a sea serpent, that You set a guard over me?” (v. 12). In other words: Why do You treat me like a dangerous force that must be restrained? Job is not rebelling—he is breaking. And in the breaking, he asks what so many afflicted believers have asked: What have I done to deserve this?

Perhaps the most heartbreaking question comes in verses 17-18: “What is man, that You should exalt him, that You should set Your heart on him, that You should visit him every morning, and test him every moment?” This is a bitter parody of Psalm 8 where David praises the Lord, saying, “What is man that You are mindful of him, and the son of man that You visit him?” (Psalm 8:4). But Job twists the question. For David, God’s mindfulness is wondrous; for Job, it is suffocating. Why do You look at me, O God? Why do You focus on me only to crush me?

He asks, “Have I sinned? What have I done to You, O watcher of men? Why have You set me as Your target, so that I am a burden to myself?” (v. 20). This is the climax of the lament. Job is not claiming innocence in the sense of sinlessness—he’s asking why he has become the focal point of divine wrath when he’s done nothing to deserve such extraordinary suffering.

Job’s language here reflects the torment of one who feels God’s eye is always upon him—but not in blessing, only in scrutiny. The very presence of God feels like a curse. Job’s cry in verses 17-18 is a paradox of anguish and awe. If you suffer under relentless internal or external pressure, this cry may sound painfully familiar. When you feel like life is one long examination under the weighty eye of the Almighty and you can’t escape your own thoughts, know that you are not alone. Job has been there, who stands among the cloud of witnesses before us (Hebrews 12:1). Scripture dares to show us that this experience is not faithlessness but part of faith’s long endurance.

God sees every tear, every thought, and every sleepless hour not as a distant judge but as the One who watched His own Son cry out, “Why have You forsaken Me?” You may feel like you’re being examined and found lacking under God’s scrutiny, but the cross reminds us Jesus was examined in your place. The God who watches you is the same God who bore your burden, shame, and sorrow. You are not a test subject. You are a child of grace. And even when your prayers feel like protests, they rise like incense to the One who never slumbers (Psalm 121:4), never turns away, and never stops loving you.

Divine Silence and Pastoral Theology

Job 7 teaches us something many theological systems are uncomfortable admitting: that God often remains silent in our affliction. Job cries out, but there’s no answer. He seeks vindication but receives none. He asks for clarity but finds only darkness. Yet this chapter is not godless. It is filled with prayer. Job may be accusing, questioning, even trembling, but he is still speaking to God. This is the faith of lament: not denial of God, but desperate dialogue with Him. Job’s complaint is born from faith. He still believes there’s a God to whom he can cry, even if that God will not yet speak.

For the pastor, Job 7 is an essential chapter. It teaches us not to rush into the silence with explanations. Our first task is not to answer but to accompany. The one who suffers may feel like a burden even to God, for our calling is to show them the Christ who bore that burden Himself.

For Job’s cry finds its fulfillment not in the voice of a prophet but in the suffering of the Son of God. On the cross, Jesus Himself echoed the tone of Job 7: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46). There, God did not merely watch suffering—He entered into it. Christ became the target. The One who knew no sin became sin for us (2 Corinthians 5:21).

And yet, the Father remained silent—until the resurrection. In that silence, all the cries of Job were gathered up—not erased but fulfilled. The cross does not explain suffering; it assures us God is not far from it.

Job 7 is a holy cry. It is Scripture’s affirmation that unanswered prayer is still prayer, and that anguish voiced to God is an act of faith, not blasphemy. It reminds us suffering is not a sign of God’s absence but may in fact be the place where He is most present, though hidden.

The Church must honor such cries—not rush to silence them, not shame them, but hold them until Christ speaks. Job will speak again. But here, in the long silence, we are invited to sit with him, speak to God with him, and hope—against hope—for a Redeemer who sees.