"Can you pull in Leviathan with a hook, and tie down its tongue with a rope?

(Who has confronted me that I should repay? Everything under heaven belongs to me!)

Its snorting throws out flashes of light; its eyes are like the red glow of dawn.

Can you put a cord through its nose, or pierce its jaw with a hook?

Its back has rows of shields, shut up closely together as with a seal;

Its breath sets coals ablaze and a flame shoots from its mouth.

It looks on every haughty being; it is king over all that are proud."

Its heart is hard as rock, hard as a lower millstone.

When it rises up, the mighty are terrified, at its thrashing about they withdraw.

Can you fill its hide with harpoons or its head with fishing spears?

Whoever strikes it with a sword will have no effect, nor with the spear, arrow, or dart.

Is it not fierce when it is awakened? Who is he, then, who can stand before it?

Smoke streams from its nostrils as from a boiling pot over burning rushes.

The folds of its flesh are tightly joined; they are firm on it, immovable.

I will not keep silent about its limbs, and the extent of its might, and the grace of its arrangement.

Out of its mouth go flames, sparks of fire shoot forth!

Will partners bargain for it? Will they divide it up among the merchants?

each one is so close to the next that no air can come between them.

See, his expectation is wrong, he is laid low even at the sight of it.

Who can open the doors of its mouth? Its teeth all around are fearsome.

Will it make a pact with you, so you could take it as your slave for life?

Strength lodges in its neck, and despair runs before it.

They lock tightly together, one to the next; they cling together and cannot be separated.

Can you play with it, like a bird, or tie it on a leash for your girls?

Who can uncover its outer covering? Who can penetrate to the inside of its armor?

Will it make numerous supplications to you, will it speak to you with tender words?

If you lay your hand on it, you will remember the fight, and you will never do it again!

The likes of it is not on earth, a creature without fear.

Arrows do not make it flee; slingstones become like chaff to it.

Its underparts are the sharp points of potsherds, it leaves its mark in the mud like a threshing sledge.

It makes the deep boil like a cauldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment,

A club is counted as a piece of straw; it laughs at the rattling of the lance.

It leaves a glistening wake behind it; one would think the deep had a head of white hair.

It regards iron as straw and bronze as rotten wood.