Under him `are' sharp points of clay, He spreadeth gold on the mire.
As stubble have darts been reckoned, And he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin.
He causeth to boil as a pot the deep, The sea he maketh as a pot of ointment.
Lo, I have set thee for a new sharp threshing instrument, Possessing teeth, thou threshest mountains, And beatest small, and hills as chaff thou makest.