From thence he spieth out the prey, his eyes look into the distance;

cast them down into the mire, and cover their faces with darkness;

Behold, though a river rages, he fears not: he is confident though the Jordan rushes into his mouth.

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

Will you put sharp-pointed irons into his skin, or fish-spears into his head?

In his neck remains strength, and sorrow is turned into dancing before him.

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