Job 41
The LORD's Final Challenge
or
Regarding Leviathan
based on Job 41
he has no equal on earth
Job 41:33
Job 41:33
Is Leviathan caught with a fishhook,
or by tying his tongue with a noose?
Can you, with any hope, thread his nose with a rope;
pierce his jaw so he cannot get loose?
Will he beg you to show him some mercy?
Will his words be so gentle and kind?
Will you make him your slave till he’s laid in his grave,
with a covenant, witnessed and signed?
Can you make him a pet, like a parrot;
have him leashed for your little girls' play?
Will friends eat him with you, or divide him in two
for the merchants to sell as they may?
Can his hide, from harpoons, become injured,
or his head be, by fishing spears, harmed?
If you give him your hand, you will soon understand,
that the next time you'll face him disarmed!
Any hope of his capture is pointless,
if a glimpse has you scared as can be.
Since he cannot be stirred, it is rather absurd
to think any can stand up to me!
What's been given that makes me indebted?
For all things under heaven are mine.
I, again, emphasize his strong legs and his thighs,
and how graceful and great his design.
Who can strip off his outermost garment?
Who can pierce through his armor beneath?
Would a wise man not pause at the door of his jaws,
since they’re ringed with such terrible teeth?
Rows of scales are his pride — his back's covered
with the tiniest shields ever seen.
For the grid is complex, each scale near to the next
so that air cannot pass in between.
Every scale interlocks with another,
joined so tightly they won't pull away.
When he sneezes, light’s shed; and his eyes are bright red
like the rays at the dawn of the day.
Leaping out of his mouth, glowing torches;
from his jaws, sparks of fire are shot.
Smoke, in billows, appears from his nostrils, then clears,
like the steam from a boiling pot.
His mere breath kindles coals into fire,
from the flames of his mouth the blaze grows.
For his neck and its length are Leviathan's strength,
striking terror wherever he goes.
And the folds of his flesh are joined tightly;
they are firm and immovably fused.
In his chest his heart's grown to be hard as a stone,
like the lower-most millstone that's used.
When he rises the mighty are frightened;
when he thrashes they vanish in fear.
Though the sword stroke be fierce, it could not ever pierce;
neither arrow, the lance, nor the spear.
As with straw, he thinks nothing of iron;
rotten wood is how he looks at brass.
Arrows can't make him flee from where he wants to be;
and the stones from the slings feel like grass.
Swinging clubs, to him, feel just like stubble;
and he laughs at the swish of the lance.
His great belly is thorned, like sharp potsherds, adorned,
leaving trails in the muddy expanse.
He makes deep water look like its boiling;
stirs the sea like a mixture prepared.
For behind him he'll make such a glistening wake:
one would think that the deep was white-haired!
Nothing here on the earth is his equal;
there's no creature more fearless beside.
He surveys his domain, feels contempt and disdain;
he is king over all sons of pride.
or by tying his tongue with a noose?
Can you, with any hope, thread his nose with a rope;
pierce his jaw so he cannot get loose?
Will he beg you to show him some mercy?
Will his words be so gentle and kind?
Will you make him your slave till he’s laid in his grave,
with a covenant, witnessed and signed?
Can you make him a pet, like a parrot;
have him leashed for your little girls' play?
Will friends eat him with you, or divide him in two
for the merchants to sell as they may?
Can his hide, from harpoons, become injured,
or his head be, by fishing spears, harmed?
If you give him your hand, you will soon understand,
that the next time you'll face him disarmed!
Any hope of his capture is pointless,
if a glimpse has you scared as can be.
Since he cannot be stirred, it is rather absurd
to think any can stand up to me!
What's been given that makes me indebted?
For all things under heaven are mine.
I, again, emphasize his strong legs and his thighs,
and how graceful and great his design.
Who can strip off his outermost garment?
Who can pierce through his armor beneath?
Would a wise man not pause at the door of his jaws,
since they’re ringed with such terrible teeth?
Rows of scales are his pride — his back's covered
with the tiniest shields ever seen.
For the grid is complex, each scale near to the next
so that air cannot pass in between.
Every scale interlocks with another,
joined so tightly they won't pull away.
When he sneezes, light’s shed; and his eyes are bright red
like the rays at the dawn of the day.
Leaping out of his mouth, glowing torches;
from his jaws, sparks of fire are shot.
Smoke, in billows, appears from his nostrils, then clears,
like the steam from a boiling pot.
His mere breath kindles coals into fire,
from the flames of his mouth the blaze grows.
For his neck and its length are Leviathan's strength,
striking terror wherever he goes.
And the folds of his flesh are joined tightly;
they are firm and immovably fused.
In his chest his heart's grown to be hard as a stone,
like the lower-most millstone that's used.
When he rises the mighty are frightened;
when he thrashes they vanish in fear.
Though the sword stroke be fierce, it could not ever pierce;
neither arrow, the lance, nor the spear.
As with straw, he thinks nothing of iron;
rotten wood is how he looks at brass.
Arrows can't make him flee from where he wants to be;
and the stones from the slings feel like grass.
Swinging clubs, to him, feel just like stubble;
and he laughs at the swish of the lance.
His great belly is thorned, like sharp potsherds, adorned,
leaving trails in the muddy expanse.
He makes deep water look like its boiling;
stirs the sea like a mixture prepared.
For behind him he'll make such a glistening wake:
one would think that the deep was white-haired!
Nothing here on the earth is his equal;
there's no creature more fearless beside.
He surveys his domain, feels contempt and disdain;
he is king over all sons of pride.
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