Wilt thou draw out the leviathan with the hook, and press down his tongue with a cord?

Who hath first given to me, that I should repay him? Whatsoever is under the whole heaven is mine.

His sneezings flash light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.

Wilt thou put a rush-rope into his nose, and pierce his jaw with a spike?

The rows of his shields are a pride, shut up together as with a close seal.

His breath kindleth coals, and a flame goeth out of his mouth.

He beholdeth all high things; he is king over all the proud beasts.

His heart is firm as a stone, yea, firm as the nether millstone.

When he raiseth himself up, the mighty are afraid: they are beside themselves with consternation.

Wilt thou fill his skin with darts, and his head with fish-spears?

If any reach him with a sword, it cannot hold; neither spear, nor dart, nor harpoon.

None is so bold as to stir him up; and who is he that will stand before me?

Out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a boiling pot and cauldron.

The flakes of his flesh are joined together: they are fused upon him, they cannot be moved.

I will not be silent as to his parts, the story of his power, and the beauty of his structure.

Out of his mouth go forth flames; sparks of fire leap out:

Shall partners make traffic of him, will they divide him among merchants?

One is so near to another that no air can come between them;

Lo, hope as to him is belied: is not one cast down even at the sight of him?

Who can open the doors of his face? Round about his teeth is terror.

Will he make a covenant with thee? wilt thou take him as a bondman for ever?

In his neck lodgeth strength, and terror danceth before him.

They are joined each to its fellow; they stick together, and cannot be sundered.

Wilt thou play with him as with a bird, and wilt thou bind him for thy maidens?

Who can uncover the surface of his garment? who can come within his double jaws?

Will he make many supplications unto thee? or will he speak softly unto thee?

Lay thy hand upon him; remember the battle, do no more!

Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear.

The arrow will not make him flee; slingstones are turned with him into stubble.

His under parts are sharp potsherds: he spreadeth a threshing-sledge upon the mire.

He maketh the deep to boil like a pot; he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment;

Clubs are counted as stubble; he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin.

He maketh the path to shine after him: one would think the deep to be hoary.

He esteemeth iron as straw, bronze as rotten wood.