He fleeth from an iron weapon, Pass through him doth a bow of brass.

Iron from the dust is taken, And from the firm stone brass.

Gold is not given for it, Nor is silver weighed -- its price.

Yea, by filling He doth press out a cloud, Scatter a cloud doth His light.

And she forgetteth that a foot may press it, And a beast of the field tread it down.

His bones are tubes of brass, His bones are as a bar of iron.

He reckoneth iron as straw, brass as rotten wood.