Job.
Chapter 41.
“Can you pull out Leviathan with a hook? Can you tie its mouth shut? 
Can you thread a rope through its nose? Can you pass a hook through its jaw? 
Will it beg you to let it go? Or will it talk softly to you? 
Will it make a contract with you? Will it agree to be your slave forever? 
Will you play with it like a pet bird? Will you put it on a leash for your girls? 
Will your trading partners decide on a price for him, and divide him up among the merchants? 
Can you pierce his skin with many harpoons, its head with fishing spears? 
If you were to grab hold of it, imagine the battle you would have! You wouldn't do that again! 
Any hope to capture it is foolish. Anyone who tries is thrown to the ground. 
Since no one has the courage to provoke Leviathan, who would dare to stand up against me? 
Who has confronted me with any claim that I should repay? Everything under heaven belongs to me. 
Let me tell you about Leviathan: its powerful legs and graceful proportions. 
Who can remove its hide? Who can penetrate its double coat of armor? 
Who can open its jaws? Its teeth are terrifying! 
Its pride is its rows of scales, closed tightly together. 
Its scales are so close together that no air can pass between them. 
Each scale attaches to the next; they lock together and nothing can penetrate them. 
When it sneezes light shines out. Its eyes are like the rising sun. 
Flames pour from its mouth, sparks of fire shoot out. 
Smoke comes from its nostrils, like steam from a kettle on a fire made of reeds. 
Its breath sets fire to charcoal as flames shoot from its mouth. 
Its neck is powerful, and all who face him shake with terror. 
Its body is dense and solid, as if it is made from cast metal. 
Its heart is rock-hard, like a millstone. 
When it rises, even the powerful are terrified; they retreat as it thrashes about. 
Swords just bounce off it, as do spears, darts, and javelins. 
It brushes aside iron like straw, and bronze like rotten wood. 
Arrows cannot make it run away; stones from slingshots are like pieces of stubble. 
Clubs are also treated like stubble; it laughs at the sound made by flying spears. 
Its underparts are covered with points as sharp as broken pots; when it drags itself through the mud it leaves marks like a threshing sledge. 
It churns up the sea like water in a boiling pot, like a steaming bowl when ointment is mixed. 
It leaves a glistening wake behind it as if the sea had white hair. 
There is nothing on earth like it: a creature that has no fear. 
It looks down on all other creatures. It is the proudest of all.” 
