The Book of Job



Job, Chapter 41


No one is so fierce that he would dare stir him up. Who then is able to stand against Me?


Who has preceded Me, that I should pay him? Everything under heaven is Mine.


"I will not conceal his limbs, his mighty power, or his graceful proportions.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Who can remove his outer coat? Who can approach him with a double bridle?

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Who can open the doors of his face, with his terrible teeth all around?

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

His rows of scales are his pride, shut up tightly as with a seal;

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

One is so near another that no air can come between them;

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

They are joined one to another, they stick together and cannot be parted.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

His sneezings flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Out of his mouth go burning lights; sparks of fire shoot out.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Smoke goes out of his nostrils, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

His breath kindles coals, and a flame goes out of his mouth.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Strength dwells in his neck, and sorrow dances before him.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

The folds of his flesh are joined together; they are firm on him and cannot be moved.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

His heart is as hard as stone, even as hard as the lower millstone.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid; because of his crashings they are beside themselves.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Though the sword reaches him, it cannot avail; nor does spear, dart, or javelin.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

He regards iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

The arrow cannot make him flee; slingstones become like stubble to him.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

Darts are regarded as straw; he laughs at the threat of javelins.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

His undersides are like sharp potsherds; he spreads pointed marks in the mire.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.


He leaves a shining wake behind him; one would think the deep had white hair.

Tweet thisPost on Facebook

On earth there is nothing like him, which is made without fear.


He beholds every high thing; he is king over all the children of pride."

Tweet thisPost on Facebook






This goes to iframe