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'Would you draw out Liwiathan with a hook, or snare his tongue with a line which you lower?
Would you put a cord through his nose, or pierce his jaw with a hook?
Would he keep on pleading with you? Would he speak softly to you?
Would he make a covenant with you to be taken as a servant forever?
Would you play with him as with a bird? Or leash him for your young girls?
Would trading partners bargain over him? Would they divide him among the merchants?
Fill his skin with harpoons? Or his head with fishing spears?
Put your hand on him - think of the struggle! Do not do it again!
See, any expectation of him is disappointed - he is laid low even at the sight of him!
No one is so foolhardy to wake him up. Who then is able to stand against Me?
Who has given to Me first, that I should repay him - under all the heavens that is Mine?
I would not keep silent concerning his limbs, or his mighty power, or his fair frame.
Who shall take off the surface of his skin? Who approaches him with a double bridle?
Who shall open the doors of his face, with his frightening teeth all around?
Rows of scales are his pride - closed up, a binding seal.
One to the other they fit closely, not even a breath enters between them.
They are joined one to another, they stick together and are not separated.
His sneezings flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.
Out of his mouth go firebrands - sparks of fire shoot out.
Out of his nostrils comes smoke, like a boiling pot or kettle.
His breath sets coals on fire, and a flame goes out of his mouth.
Strength dwells in his neck, and fear leaps before him.
The folds of his flesh cleave together. They are firm on him, immovable.
His heart is as hard as stone, even as hard as the lower millstone.
When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid. Because of his crashings they are bewildered.
No sword that reaches him does prevail, neither spear, dart, or lance.
He reckons iron as straw, bronze as rotten wood.
The arrow does not make him flee, sling-stones become like stubble to him.
Clubs are reckoned as straw, he laughs at the rattle of a lance.
His undersides are like sharp potsherds. He sprawls on the mud like a threshing-sledge.
He makes the deep boil like a pot, he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
He leaves a shining path behind him. One would think the deep to be grey-haired.
No one on earth is like him - one made without fear.
He sees all that is haughty. He is sovereign over all the sons of pride.'