The LORD Speaks of His Creation
Do you know the time when the mountain goats give birth? Do you watch over the calving of the does?
Can you count the months they fulfill, and do you know the time when they give birth?
They crouch down, they split open for their young; they send out their birth pangs.
Their young grow strong; they increase in the open field; they go out and do not return to them.
Who sent the wild donkey free? And who loosed the bonds of the swift ass,
whose home I made the desert plain, and his dwellings the salt land?
He laughs at the roar of the town; he does not hear the shouts of a driver.
He ranges the mountains as his pasture, and searches after every green thing.
Will the wild ox consent to serve you? Will he spend the night at your feeding trough?
Can you bind the wild ox in the furrow with his rope? Will he harrow the valleys after you?
Will you trust him because his strength is great? And will you leave your labor to him?
Will you believe him, that he will bring back your seed, and gather it to your threshing floor?
The wing of the ostrich flaps joyously — is it the pinion and plumage of a stork?
For she leaves her eggs to the earth, and warms them on the dust,
and forgets that a foot may crush them, and that the beast of the field may trample them.
She treats her young harshly, as if they were not hers; her labor is in vain, without dread —
because God made her forget wisdom, and gave her no share in understanding.
When she lashes herself on high, she laughs at the horse and its rider.
Do you give the horse his might? Do you clothe his neck with a mane?
Do you make him leap like a locust? The majesty of his snorting is terror.
They paw in the valley, and he exults in strength; he goes out to meet the weapons.
He laughs at dread and is not dismayed, and does not turn back from the sword.
Against him the quiver rattles, the flashing spear and the javelin.
With shaking and raging he swallows the ground, and does not stand still at the sound of the trumpet.
At the trumpet he says, “Aha!” And from afar he smells the battle — the thunder of the officers, and the shouting.
Is it from your understanding that the hawk soars, spreading his wings toward the south?
Is it at your mouth that the eagle goes up, and that he lifts his nest on high?
He dwells on a rock and lodges there, on the tooth of the rock and the stronghold.
From there he searches out food; his eyes look far off.
And his young ones lap up blood; and where the slain are, there is he.