In his neck lodge doth strength, And before him doth grief exult.
Dost thou give to the horse might? Dost thou clothe his neck `with' a mane?
Lo, I pray thee, his power `is' in his loins, And his strength in the muscles of his belly.
His breath setteth coals on fire, And a flame from his mouth goeth forth.
The flakes of his flesh have adhered -- Firm upon him -- it is not moved.
From the hand of Sheol I do ransom them, From death I redeem them, Where `is' thy plague, O death? Where thy destruction, O Sheol? Repentance is hid from Mine eyes.