“Then I thought.
‘I shall die in my nest.
I shall multiply my days like the phoenix sand.
My roots spread out to the waters.
The dew was all night on my branches.
My glory was fresh with me.
My bow was ever new in my hand.’
Everything was wonderful for Job. He expected to die in his bed after a long life. His roots had water to make them grow. The nightly dew covered the branches of his trees. His glory was with him. He had a new bow practically every day for his arrows. Why worry? Everything was great.