2.8 KiB
Chapter 41
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"Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook or press down his tongue with a cord?
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Can you put a rope in his nose or pierce his jaw with a hook?
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Will he make many pleas to you? Will he speak to you soft words?
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Will he make a covenant with you to take him for your servant forever?
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Will you play with him as with a bird, or will you put him on a leash for your girls?
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Will traders bargain over him? Will they divide him up among the merchants?
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Can you fill his skin with harpoons or his head with fishing spears?
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Lay your hands on him; remember the battle--you will not do it again!
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Behold, the hope of a man is false; he is laid low even at the sight of him.
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No one is so fierce that he dares to stir him up. Who then is he who can stand before me?
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Who has first given to me, that I should repay him? Whatever is under the whole heaven is mine.
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"I will not keep silence concerning his limbs, or his mighty strength, or his goodly frame.
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Who can strip off his outer garment? Who would come near him with a bridle?
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Who can open the doors of his face? Around his teeth is terror.
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His back is made of rows of shields, shut up closely as with a seal.
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One is so near to another that no air can come between them.
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They are joined one to another; they clasp each other and cannot be separated.
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His sneezings flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn.
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Out of his mouth go flaming torches; sparks of fire leap forth.
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Out of his nostrils comes forth smoke, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.
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His breath kindles coals, and a flame comes forth from his mouth.
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In his neck abides strength, and terror dances before him.
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The folds of his flesh stick together, firmly cast on him and immovable.
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His heart is hard as a stone, hard as the lower millstone.
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When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid; at the crashing they are beside themselves.
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Though the sword reaches him, it does not avail, nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin.
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He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.
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The arrow cannot make him flee; for him, sling stones are turned to stubble.
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Clubs are counted as stubble; he laughs at the rattle of javelins.
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His underparts are like sharp potsherds; he spreads himself like a threshing sledge on the mire.
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He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
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Behind him he leaves a shining wake; one would think the deep to be white-haired.
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On earth there is not his like, a creature without fear.
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He sees everything that is high; he is king over all the sons of pride."