The LORD’s Power Shown in Leviathan
Can you draw out Leviathan with a hook, or press down his tongue with a cord?
Can you put a reed in his nose, or pierce his jaw with a thorn?
Will he multiply pleadings to you? Will he speak soft words to you?
Will he cut a covenant with you, that you should take him as a slave forever?
Will you play with him as with a bird, and tie him up for your girls?
Will traders bargain over him? Will they divide him among merchants?
Can you fill his hide with harpoons, or his head with fishing spears?
Lay your hand on him; remember the battle — you will not do it again.
Look, the hope of him is a lie; is one not cast down even at the sight of him?
No one is fierce enough to rouse him. And who is he that can stand before me?
Who has confronted me, that I should repay him? Under all the heavens, it is mine.
I will not keep silent about his limbs, or the matter of his might, or the grace of his frame.
Who has uncovered the face of his garment? Who can come into his double bridle?
Who has opened the doors of his face? Around his teeth is terror.
His pride is channels of shields, shut up with a close seal.
One is joined to another, and no breath comes between them.
Each clings to its brother; they hold together and cannot be parted.
His sneezings flash out light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn.
Out of his mouth go torches; sparks of fire escape.
Out of his nostrils comes smoke, as from a boiling pot and burning reeds.
His breath sets coals ablaze, and a flame goes out of his mouth.
In his neck lodges strength, and despair dances before him.
The folds of his flesh cling together; they are cast firm upon him and do not move.
His heart is cast firm as a stone, cast firm as the lower millstone.
At his rising the mighty are afraid; at the crashing they lose themselves.
The sword that reaches him does not stand, nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin.
He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.
The son of the bow does not make him flee; slingstones are turned to chaff for him.
A club is counted as chaff, and he laughs at the rattling of the javelin.
Beneath him are sharp potsherds; he spreads a threshing sledge on the mud.
He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
Behind him he lights up a path; one would think the Deep were gray-headed.
There is nothing on the dust like him, a creature made without dread.
He looks on everything high; he is king over all the sons of pride.