A club is regarded as stubble; he laughs at the rattling 0f a lance.
Then the earth rocked and quaked. The foundations of mountains trembled. They reeled because He was angry.
Pestilence goes before Him, a fiery bolt goes forth at His feet.
For Topheth has long been ready, prepared for the king, its fire pit made deep and wide, a pyre of fire with plenty of wood. The breath of Adonai, like a torrent of brimstone, sets it aflame.
He made darkness His cover, His sukkah all around Him— dark waters, thick clouds.
Arrows do not make him flee; sling stones become like chaff to him.
“His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail like a threshing sledge in mud.
The grass withers, the flower fades. For the breath of Adonai blows on it. Surely the people are grass.