Job.
Chapter 41.
“Do you draw leviathan with a hook? And do you let down his tongue with a rope? 
Do you put a reed in his nose? And pierce his jaw with a thorn? 
Does he multiply supplications to you? Does he speak tender things to you? 
Does he make a covenant with you? Do you take him for a perpetual servant? 
Do you play with him as a bird? And do you bind him for your girls? 
(Companions feast on him, || They divide him among the merchants!) 
Do you fill his skin with barbed irons? And his head with fish-spears? 
Place your hand on him, || Remember the battle—do not add! 
Behold, the hope of him is found a liar, || Also, is one not cast down at his appearance? 
None so fierce that he awakes him, || And who is he who stations himself before Me? 
Who has 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 has uncovered the face of his clothing? Who enters within his double bridle? 
Who has opened the doors of his face? Around his teeth are terrible. 
A pride—strong ones of shields, || Shut up—a close seal. 
They draw near to one another, || And air does not enter between them. 
They adhere to one another, || They stick together and are not separated. 
His sneezings cause light to shine, || And his eyes are as the eyelids of the dawn. 
Flames go out of his mouth, sparks of fire escape. 
Smoke goes forth out of his nostrils, || As a blown pot and reeds. 
His breath sets coals on fire, || And a flame goes forth from his mouth. 
Strength lodges in his neck, || And grief exults before him. 
The flakes of his flesh have adhered—Firm on him—it is not moved. 
His heart is firm as a stone, || Indeed, firm as the lower piece. 
The mighty are afraid at his rising, || From his breakings they keep themselves free. 
The sword of his overtaker does not stand, || Spear, dart, and breastplate. 
He reckons iron as straw, bronze as rotten wood. 
The son of the bow does not cause him to flee, || Stones of the sling are turned into stubble by him. 
Darts have been reckoned as stubble, || And he laughs at the shaking of a javelin. 
Sharp points of clay are under him, || He spreads gold on the mire. 
He causes the deep to boil as a pot, || He makes the sea as a pot of ointment. 
He causes a path to shine after him, || One thinks the deep to be hoary. 
There is not on the earth his like, || That is made without terror. 
He sees every high thing, || He is king over all sons of pride.” 
