Chapter
41
"Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook, or press down her tongue with a cord?
Can you put a rope into her nose, or pierce her jaw through with a hook?
Will she make many petitions to you, or will she speak soft words to you?
Will she make a covenant with you, that you should take her for a servant forever?
Will you play with her as with a bird? Or will you bind her for your boys?
Will traders barter for her? Will they part her among the merchants?
Can you fill her skin with barbed irons, or her head with fish spears?
Lay your hand on her. Remember the battle, and do so no more.
Behold, the hope of her is in vain. Won't one be cast down even at the sight of her?
None is so fierce that she dare stir her up. Who then is she who can stand before me?
Who has first given to me, that I should repay her? Everything under the heavens is mine.
"I will not keep silence concerning her limbs, nor her mighty strength, nor her goodly frame.
Who can strip off her outer garment? Who shall come within her jaws?
Who can open the doors of her face? Around her teeth is terror.
Strong scales are her pride, shut up together with a close seal.
One is so near to another, that no air can come between them.
They are joined one to another. They stick together, so that they can't be pulled apart.
Hers sneezing flashes out light. Her eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.
Out of her mouth go burning torches. Sparks of fire leap forth.
Out of her nostrils a smoke goes, as of a boiling pot over a fire of reeds.
Her breath kindles coals. A flame goes forth from her mouth.
There is strength in her neck. Terror dances before her.
The flakes of her flesh are joined together. They are firm on her. They can't be moved.
Her heart is as firm as a stone, yes, firm as the lower millstone.
When she raises herself up, the mighty are afraid. They retreat before her thrashing.
If one attacks her with the sword, it can't prevail; nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.
She counts iron as straw; and brass as rotten wood.
The arrow can't make her flee. Sling stones are like chaff to her.
Clubs are counted as stubble. She laughs at the rushing of the javelin.
Hers undersides are like sharp potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.
She makes the deep to boil like a pot. She makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
She makes a path shine after her. One would think the deep had white hair.
On earth there is not her equal, that is made without fear.
She sees everything that is high. She is queen over all the daughters of pride."