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Job 41
Job 41
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1
“Can you draw out Leviathan with a fish hook, or press down his tongue with a cord?
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Can you put a rope into his nose, or pierce his jaw through with a hook?
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Will he make many petitions to you, or will he speak soft words to you?
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Will he make a covenant with you, that you should take him for a servant forever?
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Will you play with him as with a bird? Or will you bind him for your girls?
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Will traders barter for him? Will they part him among the merchants?
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Can you fill his skin with barbed irons, or his head with fish spears?
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Lay your hand on him. Remember the battle, and do so no more.
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Behold, the hope of him is in vain. Won’t one be cast down even at the sight of him?
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None is so fierce that he dare stir him up. Who then is he who can stand before me?
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Who has first given to me, that I should repay him? Everything under the heavens is mine.
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“I will not keep silence concerning his limbs, nor his mighty strength, nor his goodly frame.
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Who can strip off his outer garment? Who will come within his jaws?
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Who can open the doors of his face? Around his teeth is terror.
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Strong scales are his pride, shut up together with a close seal.
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One is so near to another, that no air can come between them.
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They are joined to one another. They stick together, so that they can’t be pulled apart.
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His sneezing flashes out light. His eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.
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Out of his mouth go burning torches. Sparks of fire leap out.
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Out of his nostrils a smoke goes, as of a boiling pot over a fire of reeds.
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His breath kindles coals. A flame goes out of his mouth.
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There is strength in his neck. Terror dances before him.
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The flakes of his flesh are joined together. They are firm on him. They can’t be moved.
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His heart is as firm as a stone, yes, firm as the lower millstone.
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When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid. They retreat before his thrashing.
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If one attacks him with the sword, it can’t prevail; nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.
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He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.
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The arrow can’t make him flee. Sling stones are like chaff to him.
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Clubs are counted as stubble. He laughs at the rushing of the javelin.
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His undersides are like sharp potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.
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He makes the deep to boil like a pot. He makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
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He makes a path shine after him. One would think the deep had white hair.
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On earth there is not his equal, that is made without fear.
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He sees everything that is high. He is king over all the sons of pride.”
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