1 Ingen er så djerv at han tør tirre den; hvem tør da sette sig op imot mig?
2 Hvem gav mig noget først, så jeg skulde gi ham vederlag? Alt under himmelen hører mig til.
3 Jeg vil ikke tie om dens lemmer, om dens store styrke og dens fagre bygning.
4 Hvem har dradd dens klædning av? Hvem tør komme innenfor dens dobbelte rad av tenner?
5 Hvem har åpnet dens kjevers dør? Rundt om dens tenner er redsel.
6 Stolte er skjoldenes rader; hvert av dem er tillukket som med et fast segl.
7 De ligger tett innpå hverandre, og ingen luft trenger inn imellem dem.
8 Det ene skjold henger fast ved det andre; de griper inn i hverandre og skilles ikke at.
9 Når den nyser, stråler det frem lys, og dens øine er som morgenrødens øielokk.
10 Bluss farer ut av dens gap, gnister spruter frem.
11 Fra dens nesebor kommer røk som av en gryte som koker over siv.
12 Dens ånde tender kull i brand, og luer går ut av dens gap.
13 På dens hals har styrken sin bolig, og angsten springer foran den.
14 Dens doglapper sitter fast; de er som støpt på den og rører sig ikke.
15 Dens hjerte er fast som sten, fast som den underste kvernsten.
16 Når den hever sig, gruer helter; av redsel mister de sans og samling.
17 Rammes den med sverd, så biter det ikke på den, heller ikke lanse, pil eller kastespyd.
18 Den akter jern som strå, kobber som ormstukket tre.
19 Buens sønn* jager den ikke på flukt; slyngens stener blir som halm for den. / {* pilen.}
20 Stridsklubber aktes som halm, og den ler av det susende spyd.
21 På dens buk sitter skarpe skår, den gjør spor i dyndet som efter en treskeslede.
22 Den får dypet til å koke som en gryte; den får havet til å skumme som en salvekokers kjele.
23 Efter den lyser dens sti; dypet synes å ha sølvhår.
24 Det er intet på jorden som er herre over den; den er skapt til ikke å reddes.
25 Alt som er høit, ser den i øiet; den er en konge over alle stolte dyr.
1 Canst thou draw out leviathan with a fishhook?
Or press down his tongue with a cord?
2 Canst thou put a rope into his nose?
Or pierce his jaw through with a hook?
3 Will he make many supplications unto thee?
Or will he speak soft words unto thee?
4 Will he make a covenant with thee,
That thou shouldest take him for a servant for ever?
5 Wilt thou play with him as with a bird?
Or wilt thou bind him for thy maidens?
6 Will the bands of fishermen make traffic of him?
Will they part him among the merchants?
7 Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons,
Or his head with fish-spears?
8 Lay thy hand upon him;
Remember the battle, and do so no more.
9 Behold, the hope of him is in vain:
Will not one be cast down even at the sight of him?
10 None is so fierce that he dare stir him up;
Who then is he that can stand before me?
11 Who hath first given unto me, that I should repay him?
Whatsoever is under the whole heaven is mine.
12 I will not keep silence concerning his limbs,
Nor his mighty strength, nor his goodly frame.
13 Who can strip off his outer garment?
Who shall come within his jaws?
14 Who can open the doors of his face?
Round about his teeth is terror.
15 His strong scales are his pride,
Shut up together as with a close seal.
16 One is so near to another,
That no air can come between them.
17 They are joined one to another;
They stick together, so that they cannot be sundered.
18 His sneezings flash forth light,
And his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.
19 Out of his mouth go burning torches,
And sparks of fire leap forth.
20 Out of his nostrils a smoke goeth,
As of a boiling pot and burning rushes.
21 His breath kindleth coals,
And a flame goeth forth from his mouth.
22 In his neck abideth strength,
And terror danceth before him.
23 The flakes of his flesh are joined together:
They are firm upon him; they cannot be moved.
24 His heart is as firm as a stone;
Yea, firm as the nether millstone.
25 When he raiseth himself up, the mighty are afraid:
By reason of consternation they are beside themselves.
26 If one lay at him with the sword, it cannot avail;
Nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.
27 He counteth iron as straw,
And brass as rotten wood.
28 The arrow cannot make him flee:
Sling-stones are turned with him into stubble.
29 Clubs are counted as stubble:
He laugheth at the rushing of the javelin.
30 His underparts are like sharp potsherds:
He spreadeth as it were a threshing-wain upon the mire.
31 He maketh the deep to boil like a pot:
He maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.
32 He maketh a path to shine after him;
One would think the deep to be hoary.
33 Upon earth there is not his like,
That is made without fear.
34 He beholdeth everything that is high:
He is king over all the sons of pride.