“His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail like a threshing sledge in mud.
“Do you give the horse its strength? Do you clothe his neck with a mane?
Now look at his strength in his loins, and his power in the muscles of his belly.
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.
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.”