“For I know that my Redeemer lives, and He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself and my eyes shall behold, and not another, though my reins be consumed within me” – Job 19:25-27

Our text deserves our profound attention; its preface would hardly have been written had not the matter been of the utmost importance in the judgment of the patriarch who uttered it. Listen to Job’s remarkable desire—”Oh that my words were now written! Oh, that they were printed in a book! That they were engraved with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!” Perhaps, hardly aware of the full meaning of the words he was uttering, yet his holy soul was impressed with a sense of some weighty revelation concealed within his words; he therefore desired that it might be recorded in a book! His desire, by God’s grace, was granted, the Book of books embalms the words of Job! He wished to have them engraved on a rock—cut deep into it with an iron pen—and then the lines inlaid with lead; or he would have them engraved, according to the custom of the ancients, upon a sheet of metal, so that time might not be able to eat out the inscription. He has not had his desire in that respect, except only that upon many and many a sepulchre, those words of Job stand recorded, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” It is the opinion of some commentators that Job, in speaking of the rock here, intended his own rock-hewn sepulchre, and desired that this might be his epitaph; that it might be cut deep, so that ages should not wear it out—that when any asked, “Where does Job sleep?” as soon as they saw the sepulchre of the patriarch of Uz, they might learn that he died in hope of resurrection, resting upon a living Redeemer. Whether such a sentence adorned the portal of Job’s last sleeping-place we know not, but certainly no words could have been more fitly chosen. Should not the man of patience, the mirror of endurance, the pattern of trust, bear as his memorial this golden line—which is as full of all the patience of hope, and hope of patience—as mortal language can be? Who among us could select a more glorious motto for his last escutcheon? ~ C.H. Spurgeon

https://www.blueletterbible.org/comm/spurgeon_charles/sermons/0504.cfm