The range of the mountains is his pasture, And he searcheth after every green thing.
Behold now behemoth, which I made with thee; He eateth grass as all ox.
And every thing whereupon any part of their carcase falleth shall be unclean; whether oven, or range for pots, it shall be broken in pieces: they are unclean, and shall be unclean unto you.
He scorneth the tumult of the city, Neither heareth he the shoutings of the driver.
Will the wild-ox be content to serve thee? Or will he abide by thy crib?
Doth the wild ass bray when he hath grass? Or loweth the ox over his fodder?