"Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook, or press down his tongue with a cord?

Who has first given to me, that I should repay him? Everything under the heavens is mine.

His sneezing flashes out light. His eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.

Can you put a rope into his nose, or pierce his jaw through with a hook?

Strong scales are his pride, shut up together with a close seal.

His breath kindles coals. A flame goes forth from his mouth.

He sees everything that is high. He is king over all the sons of pride."

His heart is as firm as a stone, yes, firm as the lower millstone.

When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid. They retreat before his thrashing.

Can you fill his skin with barbed irons, or his head with fish spears?

If one attacks him with the sword, it can't prevail; nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.

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

Out of his nostrils a smoke goes, as of a boiling pot over a fire of reeds.

The flakes of his flesh are joined together. They are firm on him. They can't 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. Sparks of fire leap forth.

Will traders barter for 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. Won't one be cast down even at the sight of him?

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

Will he make a covenant with you, that you should take him for a servant forever?

There is strength in his neck. Terror dances before him.

They are joined one to another. They stick together, so that they can't be pulled apart.

Will you play with him as with a bird? Or will you bind him for your girls?

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

Will he make many petitions to you, or will he speak soft words to you?

Lay your hand on him. Remember the battle, and do so no more.

On earth there is not his equal, that is made without fear.

The arrow can't make him flee. Sling stones are like chaff to him.

His undersides are like sharp potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.

He makes the deep to boil like a pot. He makes the sea like a pot of ointment.

Clubs are counted as stubble. He laughs at the rushing of the javelin.

He makes a path shine after him. One would think the deep had white hair.

He counts iron as straw; and brass as rotten wood.