Job 41

Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook, or press down his tongue with a cord? Can you put a rush cord through his nose, or pierce his jaw with a hook? Will he make many pleas to you?
Will he speak gentle words to you? Will he make a covenant with you, so that you take him as a servant forever? Will you play with him as with a bird, or tie him up for your girls? Will partners bargain over him?
Will they divide him among merchants? Can you fill his skin with harpoons, or his head with fishing spears? Lay your hand on him;
remember the battle, and do it no more! Look, his hope proves false;
is not one thrown down at the very sight of him? No one is so fierce that he dares stir him up.
Who then can stand before me? Who has given to me first, that I should repay him?
Everything under the whole heaven is mine. I will not keep silent about his limbs, his mighty strength, and the grace of his form. Who can strip off his outer garment?
Who can enter within his double bridle? Who can open the doors of his face?
Terror surrounds his teeth. His pride is rows of shields, closed with a tight seal. One draws close to another, and no air comes between them. They cling to one another;
they hold fast and cannot be separated. His sneezes flash with light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of dawn. Torches go out from his mouth;
sparks of fire escape. Smoke comes from his nostrils, as from a pot heated over reeds. His breath kindles coals, and a flame goes out from his mouth. Strength dwells in his neck, and dismay dances before him. The folds of his flesh cling together, cast firm upon him, unmoving. His heart is cast firm as stone, firm as the lower millstone. When he rises, the mighty are afraid;
at his crashing they purify themselves. The sword that reaches him cannot stand, nor the spear, the dart, or body armor. He counts iron as straw, bronze as rotten wood. The arrow does not make him flee;
slingstones turn to stubble for him. Clubs are counted as stubble;
he laughs at the rattling of the javelin. His underside is like sharp potsherds;
he spreads a threshing sledge over the mud. He makes the deep boil like a pot;
he makes the sea like a pot of ointment. Behind him he leaves a shining path;
one would think the deep had gray hair. On earth there is none like him, a creature made without fear. He looks on all that is high;
he is king over all the sons of pride.”

Rights and attribution