By Mu Cheng
It is dusk, and a grey-haired old man was sitting by the ashes of his fire, his exposed skin densely covered in painful boils, the surface of the boils broken and suppurating in a horrifying scene.
The old man’s expression showed that he was extremely sorrowful, yet he remained silent and, picking up a potsherd, he began to scrape at the boils.
After a long while, he said, “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived” (Job 3:3)
