Job 41:20–33

Out of his nostrils comes forth smoke,

as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.

His breath kindles coals,

and a flame comes forth from his mouth.

In his neck abides strength,

and terror dances before him.

The folds of his flesh stick together,

firmly cast on him and immovable.

His heart is hard as a stone,

hard as the lower millstone.

When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid;

at the crashing they are beside themselves.

Though the sword reaches him, it does not avail,

nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin.

He counts iron as straw,

and bronze as rotten wood.

The arrow cannot make him flee;

for him, sling stones are turned to stubble.

Clubs are counted as stubble;

he laughs at the rattle of javelins.

His underparts are like sharp potsherds;

he spreads himself like a threshing sledge on the mire.

He makes the deep boil like a pot;

he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.

Behind him he leaves a shining wake;

one would think the deep to be white-haired.

On earth there is not his like,

a creature without fear.

Smoke pours from its nostrils

as from a boiling pot over burning reeds.

Its breath sets coals ablaze,

and flames dart from its mouth.

Strength resides in its neck;

dismay goes before it.

The folds of its flesh are tightly joined;

they are firm and immovable.

Its chest is hard as rock,

hard as a lower millstone.

When it rises up, the mighty are terrified;

they retreat before its thrashing.

The sword that reaches it has no effect,

nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin.

Iron it treats like straw

and bronze like rotten wood.

Arrows do not make it flee;

slingstones are like chaff to it.

A club seems to it but a piece of straw;

it laughs at the rattling of the lance.

Its undersides are jagged potsherds,

leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.

It makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron

and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment.

It leaves a glistening wake behind it;

one would think the deep had white hair.

Nothing on earth is its equal—

a creature without fear.

Smoke streams from its nostrils

like steam from a pot heated over burning rushes.

Its breath would kindle coals,

for flames shoot from its mouth.

“The tremendous strength in Leviathan’s neck

strikes terror wherever it goes.

Its flesh is hard and firm

and cannot be penetrated.

Its heart is hard as rock,

hard as a millstone.

When it rises, the mighty are afraid,

gripped by terror.

No sword can stop it,

no spear, dart, or javelin.

Iron is nothing but straw to that creature,

and bronze is like rotten wood.

Arrows cannot make it flee.

Stones shot from a sling are like bits of grass.

Clubs are like a blade of grass,

and it laughs at the swish of javelins.

Its belly is covered with scales as sharp as glass.

It plows up the ground as it drags through the mud.

“Leviathan makes the water boil with its commotion.

It stirs the depths like a pot of ointment.

The water glistens in its wake,

making the sea look white.

Nothing on earth is its equal,

no other creature so fearless.

Smoke comes from its nostrils

as from a kettle boiling and burning bulrushes.

Its breath kindles charcoal,

and a flame comes from its mouth.

“Strength abides in its neck,

and dismay dances before it.

Its flesh’s folds of skin cling together;

it is cast on it—it will not be moved.

Its heart is cast as stone;

yes, it is cast as the lower millstone.

When it raises itself, the mighty ones are terrified;

they retreat because of its thrashing.

Reaching it with the sword does not avail,

nor with the spear, the dart, or the javelin.

It regards iron as straw,

bronze as rotten wood.

An arrow will not make it flee;

sling stones are turned to stubble for it.

Clubs are regarded as stubble,

and it laughs at the short sword’s rattle.

“Its underparts are shards of a potsherd;

it moves over mud like a threshing sledge.

It makes the deep boil like a cooking pot;

it makes the sea like a pot of ointment.

Behind it, it leaves a glistening wake;

one would think that the deep has gray hair.

“On the ground it has no equal—

a creature without fear.

Out of his nostrils goeth smoke,

As out of a seething pot or caldron.

His breath kindleth coals,

And a flame goeth out of his mouth.

In his neck remaineth strength,

And sorrow is turned into joy before him.

The flakes of his flesh are joined together:

They are firm in themselves; they cannot be moved.

His heart is as firm as a stone;

Yea, as hard as a piece of the nether millstone.

When he raiseth up himself, the mighty are afraid:

By reason of breakings they purify themselves.

The sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold:

The spear, the dart, nor the habergeon.

He esteemeth iron as straw,

And brass as rotten wood.

The arrow cannot make him flee:

Slingstones are turned with him into stubble.

Darts are counted as stubble:

He laugheth at the shaking of a spear.

Sharp stones are under him:

He spreadeth sharp pointed things upon the mire.

He maketh the deep to boil like a pot:

He maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.

He maketh a path to shine after him;

One would think the deep to be hoary.

Upon earth there is not his like,

Who is made without fear.