Lo, I pray thee, Behemoth, that I made with thee: Grass as an ox he eateth.
The range of mountains `is' his pasture, And after every green thing he seeketh.
And even I -- I do praise thee, For thy right hand giveth salvation to thee.
Lo, I pray thee, his power `is' in his loins, And his strength in the muscles of his belly.
He `is' a beginning of the ways of God, His Maker bringeth nigh his sword;
For food do mountains bear for him, And all the beasts of the field play there.
Causing grass to spring up for cattle, And herb for the service of man, To bring forth bread from the earth,