Look at Behemoth, whom I made along with you; he eats grass like cattle.
Look, his strength is in his thighs, his power in stomach muscles.
He stiffens his tail like a cedar; the tendons in his thighs are tightly woven.
His bones are like bronze tubes, his limbs like iron bars.
He is the first of God's acts; only his maker can come near him with a sword.
Indeed, the hills bring him tribute, places where all the wild animals play.
He lies under the lotuses, under the cover of reed and marsh.
The lotuses screen him with shade; poplars of the stream surround him.
If the river surges, he doesn't hurry; he is confident even though the Jordan gushes into his mouth.
Can he be seized by his eyes? Can anyone pierce his nose by hooks?