“His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail like a threshing sledge in mud.
Should I ransom them from the hand of Sheol? Should I redeem them from death? O death, where are your plagues? O Sheol, where is your sting? Comfort is hidden from My eyes.”
Now look at his strength in his loins, and his power in the muscles of his belly.
“Do you give the horse its strength? Do you clothe his neck with a mane?
A club is regarded as stubble; he laughs at the rattling 0f a lance.
He makes the deep boil like a cauldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment.