Job.
Chapter 41.
Canst thou draw out leviathan with a fishhook? Or press down his tongue with a cord? 
Canst thou put a rope into his nose? Or pierce his jaw through with a hook? 
Will he make many supplications unto thee? Or will he speak soft words unto thee? 
Will he make a covenant with thee, That thou shouldest take him for a servant forever? 
Wilt thou play with him as with a bird? Or wilt thou bind him for thy maidens? 
Will the bands of fishermen make traffic of him? Will they part him among the merchants? 
Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons, Or his head with fish-spears? 
Lay thy hand upon him; Remember the battle, and do so no more. 
Behold, the hope of him is in vain: Will not one be cast down even at the sight of him? 
None is so fierce that he dare stir him up; Who then is he that can stand before me? 
Who hath first given unto me, that I should repay him? Whatsoever is under the whole heaven is mine. 
I will not keep silence concerning his limbs, Nor his mighty strength, nor his goodly frame. 
Who can strip off his outer garment? Who shall come within his jaws? 
Who can open the doors of his face? Round about his teeth is terror. 
His strong scales are his 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 one to another; They stick together, so that they cannot be sundered. 
His sneezings flash forth light, And his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning. 
Out of his mouth go burning torches, And sparks of fire leap forth. 
Out of his nostrils a smoke goeth, As of a boiling pot and burning rushes. 
His breath kindleth coals, And a flame goeth forth from his mouth. 
In his neck abideth strength, And terror danceth before him. 
The flakes of his flesh are joined together: They are firm upon him; they cannot be moved. 
His heart is as firm as a stone; Yea, firm as the nether millstone. 
When he raiseth himself up, the mighty are afraid: By reason of consternation they are beside themselves. 
If one lay at him with the sword, it cannot avail; Nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft. 
He counteth iron as straw, And brass as rotten wood. 
The arrow cannot make him flee: Slingstones are turned with him into stubble. 
Clubs are counted as stubble: He laugheth at the rushing of the javelin. 
His underparts are like sharp potsherds: He spreadeth as it were a threshing wain upon the mire. 
He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: He maketh the sea like a pot of ointment. 
He maketh a path to shine after him; One would think the deep to be hoary. 
Upon earth there is not his like, That is made without fear. 
He beholdeth everything that is high: He is king over all the sons of pride. 
