"Will the wild ox be content to serve you? Or will he stay by your feeding trough?

"The wings of the ostrich wave proudly; but are they the feathers and plumage of love?

"Do you know the time when the mountain goats give birth? Do you watch when the doe bears fawns?

"Have you given the horse might? Have you clothed his neck with a quivering mane?

Is it at your command that the eagle mounts up, and makes his nest on high?

"Who has set the wild donkey free? Or who has loosened the bonds of the swift donkey,

Can you hold the wild ox in the furrow with his harness? Or will he till the valleys after you?

"Is it by your wisdom that the hawk soars, and stretches her wings toward the south?

His young ones also suck up blood. Where the slain are, there he is."

As often as the trumpet sounds he snorts, 'Aha!' He smells the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.

For she leaves her eggs on the earth, warms them in the dust,

Whose home I have made the wilderness, and the salt land his dwelling place?

The quiver rattles against him, the flashing spear and the javelin.

He paws in the valley, and rejoices in his strength. He goes out to meet the armed men.

She deals harshly with her young ones, as if they were not hers. Though her labor is in vain, she is without fear,

because God has deprived her of wisdom, neither has he imparted to her understanding.

He eats up the ground with fierceness and rage, neither does he stand still at the sound of the trumpet.

Will you confide in him, that he will bring home your seed, and gather the grain of your threshing floor?

Their young ones become strong. They grow up in the open field. They go forth, and don't return again.

Have you made him to leap as a locust? The glory of his snorting is awesome.

He mocks at fear, and is not dismayed, neither does he turn back from the sword.

On the cliff he dwells, and makes his home, on the point of the cliff, and the stronghold.

The range of the mountains is his pasture, He searches after every green thing.

When she lifts up herself on high, she scorns the horse and his rider.

He scorns the tumult of the city, neither does he hear the shouting of the driver.

From there he spies out the prey. His eyes see it afar off.

Will you trust him, because his strength is great? Or will you leave to him your labor?

and forgets that the foot may crush them, or that the wild animal may trample them.

They bow themselves, they bring forth their young, they end their labor pains.

Can you number the months that they fulfill? Or do you know the time when they give birth?