Job.
Chapter 41.
Canst thou draw forth the crocodile with a hook, Or press down his tongue with a cord? 
Canst thou put a rope into his nose, Or pierce his cheek with a hook? 
Will he make many entreaties to thee? Will he speak soft words to thee? 
Will he make a covenant with thee? Canst thou take him for a servant for ever? 
Canst thou play with him, as with a bird? Or canst thou bind him for thy maidens? 
Do men in company lay snares for him? Do they divide him among the merchants? 
Canst thou fill his skirt with barbed irons, Or his head with fish-spears? 
Do but lay thy hand upon him,—Thou wilt no more think of battle! 
Behold, his hope is vain! Is he not cast down at the very sight of him? 
None is so fierce that he dare stir him up; Who then is he that can stand before me? 
Who hath done me a favor, that I must repay him? Whatever is under the whole heaven is mine. 
I will not be silent concerning his limbs, And his strength, and the beauty of his armor. 
Who can uncover the surface of his garment? Who will approach his jaws? 
Who will open the doors of his face? The rows of his teeth are terrible! 
His glory is his strong shields, United with each other, as with a close seal. 
They are joined one to another, So that no air can come between them. 
They cleave fast to each other, They hold together, and cannot be separated. 
His sneezing sendeth forth light, And his eyes are like the eyelashes of the morning. 
Out of his mouth go flames, And sparks of fire leap forth. 
From his nostrils issueth smoke, as from a heated pot, or caldron. 
His breath kindleth coals, And flames issue from his mouth. 
In his neck dwelleth strength, And terror danceth before him. 
The flakes of his flesh cleave fast together; They are firm upon him, and cannot be moved. 
His heart is solid like a stone; Yea, solid like the nether millstone. 
When he riseth up, the mighty are afraid; Yea, they lose themselves for terror. 
The sword of him that assaileth him doth not stand, The spear, the dart, nor the habergeon. 
He regardeth iron as straw, And brass as rotten wood. 
The arrow cannot make him flee; Sling-stones to him become stubble; 
Clubs are accounted by him as straw; He laugheth at the shaking of the spear. 
Under him are sharp potsherds; He spreadeth out a thrashing-sledge upon the mire. 
He maketh the deep to boil like a caldron; He maketh the sea like a pot of ointment. 
Behind him he leaveth a shining path; One would think the deep to be hoary. 
Upon the earth there is not his master; He is made without fear. 
He looketh down upon all that is high; He is king over all the sons of pride. 
