Dost thou draw leviathan with an angle? And with a rope thou lettest down -- his tongue?

Who hath brought before Me and I repay? Under the whole heavens it is mine.

His sneezings cause light to shine, And his eyes are as the eyelids of the dawn.

Dost thou put a reed in his nose? And with a thorn pierce his jaw?

A pride -- strong ones of shields, Shut up -- a close seal.

His breath setteth coals on fire, And a flame from his mouth goeth forth.

Every high thing he doth see, He is king over all sons of pride.

His heart is firm as a stone, Yea, firm as the lower piece.

From his rising are the mighty afraid, From breakings they keep themselves free.

Dost thou fill with barbed irons his skin? And with fish-spears his head?

The sword of his overtaker standeth not, Spear -- dart -- and lance.

None so fierce that he doth awake him, And who is he before Me stationeth himself?

Out of his nostrils goeth forth smoke, As a blown pot and reeds.

The flakes of his flesh have adhered -- Firm upon him -- it is not moved.

I do not keep silent concerning his parts, And the matter of might, And the grace of his arrangement.

Out of his mouth do flames go, sparks of fire escape.

(Feast upon him do companions, They divide him among the merchants!)

One unto another they draw nigh, And air doth not enter between them.

Lo, the hope of him is found a liar, Also at his appearance is not one cast down?

The doors of his face who hath opened? Round about his teeth are terrible.

Doth he make a covenant with thee? Dost thou take him for a servant age-during?

In his neck lodge doth strength, And before him doth grief exult.

One unto another they adhere, They stick together and are not separated.

Dost thou play with him as a bird? And dost thou bind him for thy damsels?

Who hath uncovered the face of his clothing? Within his double bridle who doth enter?

Doth he multiply unto thee supplications? Doth he speak unto thee tender things?

Place on him thy hand, Remember the battle -- do not add!

There is not on the earth his like, That is made without terror.

The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling.

Under him are sharp points of clay, He spreadeth gold on the mire.

He causeth to boil as a pot the deep, The sea he maketh as a pot of ointment.

As stubble have darts been reckoned, And he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin.

After him he causeth a path to shine, One thinketh the deep to be hoary.

He reckoneth iron as straw, brass as rotten wood.