His undersides are like sharp potsherds. He sprawls on the mud like a threshing-sledge.
Clubs are reckoned as straw, he laughs at the rattle of a lance.
He makes the deep boil like a pot, he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
“See, I shall make you into a new threshing sledge with sharp teeth, let you thresh mountains and beat them small, and make hills like chaff.