Job - Chapter 41

1Dost thou draw leviathan with an angle? And with a rope thou lettest down -- his tongue? 2Dost thou put a reed in his nose? And with a thorn pierce his jaw? 3Doth he multiply unto thee supplications? Doth he speak unto thee tender things? 4Doth he make a covenant with thee? Dost thou take him for a servant age-during? 5Dost thou play with him as a bird? And dost thou bind him for thy damsels? 6(Feast upon him do companions, They divide him among the merchants!) 7Dost thou fill with barbed irons his skin? And with fish-spears his head? 8Place on him thy hand, Remember the battle -- do not add! 9Lo, the hope of him is found a liar, Also at his appearance is not one cast down? 10None so fierce that he doth awake him, And who `is' he before Me stationeth himself? 11Who hath brought before Me and I repay? Under the whole heavens it `is' mine. 12I do not keep silent concerning his parts, And the matter of might, And the grace of his arrangement. 13Who hath uncovered the face of his clothing? Within his double bridle who doth enter? 14The doors of his face who hath opened? Round about his teeth `are' terrible. 15A pride -- strong ones of shields, Shut up -- a close seal. 16One unto another they draw nigh, And air doth not enter between them. 17One unto another they adhere, They stick together and are not separated. 18His sneezings cause light to shine, And his eyes `are' as the eyelids of the dawn. 19Out of his mouth do flames go, sparks of fire escape. 20Out of his nostrils goeth forth smoke, As a blown pot and reeds. 21His breath setteth coals on fire, And a flame from his mouth goeth forth. 22In his neck lodge doth strength, And before him doth grief exult. 23The flakes of his flesh have adhered -- Firm upon him -- it is not moved. 24His heart `is' firm as a stone, Yea, firm as the lower piece. 25From his rising are the mighty afraid, From breakings they keep themselves free. 26The sword of his overtaker standeth not, Spear -- dart -- and lance. 27He reckoneth iron as straw, brass as rotten wood. 28The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling. 29As stubble have darts been reckoned, And he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin. 30Under him `are' sharp points of clay, He spreadeth gold on the mire. 31He causeth to boil as a pot the deep, The sea he maketh as a pot of ointment. 32After him he causeth a path to shine, One thinketh the deep to be hoary. 33There is not on the earth his like, That is made without terror. 34Every high thing he doth see, He `is' king over all sons of pride.