Can you draw out leviathan with a hook, Or press down his tongue with a cord?

Can you put a rope in his nose, Or pierce his jaw with a hook?

Will he make many supplications unto you, Or speak soft words to you?

Will he make a covenant with you That you would take him as a servant forever?

Will you play with him as with a bird, Or bind him for your maidens?

Will the traders bargain over him? Will they divide him up among merchants?

Can you fill his skin with harpoons, Or his head with fishing spears?

Lay your hand on him, And remember the battle-you will never do it again!

Indeed, any hope for him is vain; Will not one be even cast down at the sight of him?

No one is so fierce as to stir him up; Who then is he who would stand before Me?

Who has first given to Me that I should repay him? Whatever is under the whole heaven is Mine.

I will not be silent about his limbs Or about the account of his mighty deeds or about the beauty of his frame.

Who can strip off his outer garment? Who can go within his double jaws?

Who can open the doors of his face? Around his teeth is terror.

His pride is his rows of scales, Shut up as with a tight seal.

One is so near the other That the air cannot pass between them.

Each is joined to the other; They stick together and cannot be separated.

His sneezes flash forth light, And his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn.

Out of his mouth go forth flaming torches; Sparks of fire leap out.

Out of his nostrils comes smoke, As from a boiling pot and burning rushes.

His breath kindles coals, And a flame comes from his mouth.

In his neck abides strength, And terror dances before him.

The folds of his flesh are joined together; They are firm upon him and immovable.

His heart is as firm as stone, Indeed as firm as the lower millstone.

At his rising up, the mighty fear; They are beside themselves with consternation.

The sword that reaches him cannot avail, Nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin.

He considers iron shafts as straw, And bronze ones as rotted wood.

The arrow does not make him flee; With him slingstones turn to stubble.

Clubs are considered as stubble; He laughs at the quivering javelin.

His underparts are like sharp potsherds; He spreads himself like a threshing sledge upon the mire.

He makes the deep boil like a cauldron; He makes the sea like a pot of ointment.

Behind him he makes a shining wake; One would think the deep to be white-haired.

On earth there is none his equal, Who is made without fear.

He beholds everything that is high; He is king over all the sons of pride.