Chapter 41 from Job | Ylt

Dost thou draw leviathan with an angle? And with a rope thou lettest down -- his tongue?

Dost thou put a reed in his nose? And with a thorn pierce his jaw?

Doth he multiply unto thee supplications? Doth he speak unto thee tender things?

Doth he make a covenant with thee? Dost thou take him for a servant age-during?

Dost thou play with him as a bird? And dost thou bind him for thy damsels?

(Feast upon him do companions, They divide him among the merchants!)

Dost thou fill with barbed irons his skin? And with fish-spears his head?

Place on him thy hand, Remember the battle -- do not add!

Lo, the hope of him is found a liar, Also at his appearance is not one cast down?

None so fierce that he doth awake him, And who `is' he before Me stationeth himself?

Who hath brought before Me and I repay? Under the whole heavens it `is' mine.

I do not keep silent concerning his parts, And the matter of might, And the grace of his arrangement.

Who hath uncovered the face of his clothing? Within his double bridle who doth enter?

The doors of his face who hath opened? Round about his teeth `are' terrible.

A pride -- strong ones of shields, Shut up -- a close seal.

One unto another they draw nigh, And air doth not enter between them.

One unto another they adhere, They stick together and are not separated.

His sneezings cause light to shine, And his eyes `are' as the eyelids of the dawn.

Out of his mouth do flames go, sparks of fire escape.

Out of his nostrils goeth forth smoke, As a blown pot and reeds.

His breath setteth coals on fire, And a flame from his mouth goeth forth.

In his neck lodge doth strength, And before him doth grief exult.

The flakes of his flesh have adhered -- Firm upon him -- it is not moved.

His heart `is' firm as a stone, Yea, firm as the lower piece.

From his rising are the mighty afraid, From breakings they keep themselves free.

The sword of his overtaker standeth not, Spear -- dart -- and lance.

He reckoneth iron as straw, brass as rotten wood.

The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling.

As stubble have darts been reckoned, And he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin.

Under him `are' sharp points of clay, He spreadeth gold on the mire.

He causeth to boil as a pot the deep, The sea he maketh as a pot of ointment.

After him he causeth a path to shine, One thinketh the deep to be hoary.

There is not on the earth his like, That is made without terror.

Every high thing he doth see, He `is' king over all sons of pride.