Job.
Chapter 41.
Wilt thou draw out the leviathan with the hook, and press down his tongue with a cord? 
Wilt thou put a rush-rope into his nose, and pierce his jaw with a spike? 
Will he make many supplications unto thee? or will he speak softly unto thee? 
Will he make a covenant with thee? wilt thou take him as a bondman for ever? 
Wilt thou play with him as with a bird, and wilt thou bind him for thy maidens? 
Shall partners make traffic of him, will they divide him among merchants? 
Wilt thou fill his skin with darts, and his head with fish-spears? 
Lay thy hand upon him; remember the battle, — do no more! 
Lo, hope as to him is belied: is not one cast down even at the sight of him? 
None is so bold as to stir him up; and who is he that will stand before me? 
Who hath first given to me, that I should repay him? Whatsoever is under the whole heaven is mine. 
I will not be silent as to his parts, the story of his power, and the beauty of his structure. 
Who can uncover the surface of his garment? who can come within his double jaws? 
Who can open the doors of his face? Round about his teeth is terror. 
The rows of his shields are a pride, shut up together as with a close seal. 
One is so near to another that no air can come between them; 
They are joined each to its fellow; they stick together, and cannot be sundered. 
His sneezings flash light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning. 
Out of his mouth go forth flames; sparks of fire leap out: 
Out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a boiling pot and cauldron. 
His breath kindleth coals, and a flame goeth out of his mouth. 
In his neck lodgeth strength, and terror danceth before him. 
The flakes of his flesh are joined together: they are fused upon him, they cannot be moved. 
His heart is firm as a stone, yea, firm as the nether millstone. 
When he raiseth himself up, the mighty are afraid: they are beside themselves with consternation. 
If any reach him with a sword, it cannot hold; neither spear, nor dart, nor harpoon. 
He esteemeth iron as straw, bronze as rotten wood. 
The arrow will not make him flee; slingstones are turned with him into stubble. 
Clubs are counted as stubble; he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin. 
His under parts are sharp potsherds: he spreadeth a threshing-sledge upon the mire. 
He maketh the deep to boil like a pot; he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment; 
He maketh the path to shine after him: one would think the deep to be hoary. 
Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear. 
He beholdeth all high things; he is king over all the proud beasts. 
