Canst thou draw out leviathan with a fishhook? Or press down his tongue with a cord?

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

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

Canst thou put a rope into his nose? Or pierce his jaw through with a hook?

His'strong scales are his pride, Shut up together as with a close seal.

His breath kindleth coals, And a flame goeth forth from his mouth.

He beholdeth everything that is high: He is king over all the sons of pride.

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

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

Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons, Or his head with fish-spears?

If one lay at him with the sword, it cannot avail; Nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.

None is so fierce that he dare stir him up; Who then is he that can stand before me?

Out of his nostrils a smoke goeth, As of a boiling pot and burning rushes.

The flakes of his flesh are joined together: They are firm upon him; they cannot be moved.

I will not keep silence concerning his limbs, Nor his mighty strength, nor his goodly frame.

Out of his mouth go burning torches, And sparks of fire leap forth.

Will the bands of fishermen make traffic of him? Will they part him among the merchants?

One is so near to another, That no air can come between them.

Behold, the hope of him is in vain: Will not one be 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, That thou shouldest take him for a servant for ever?

In his neck abideth strength, And terror danceth before him.

They are joined one to another; They stick together, so that they cannot be sundered.

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

Who can strip off his outer garment? Who shall come within his jaws?

Will he make many supplications unto thee? Or will he speak soft words unto thee?

Lay thy hand upon him; Remember the battle, and do so no more.

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

The arrow cannot make him flee: Sling-stones are turned with him into stubble.

His underparts are like'sharp potsherds: He spreadeth as it were a threshing-wain 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 rushing of the javelin.

He maketh a path to shine after him; One would think the deep to be hoary.

He counteth iron as straw, And brass as rotten wood.