When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid. They retreat before his thrashing.
If one lay at him with the sword, it can't avail; Nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.
He counts iron as straw; And brass as rotten wood.
The arrow can't make him flee. Sling stones are like chaff to him.
Clubs are counted as stubble. He laughs at the rushing of the javelin.
His undersides are like sharp potsherds, Leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.
He makes the deep to boil like a pot. He makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
He makes a path to shine after him. One would think the deep had white hair.
On eretz there is not his equal, That is made without fear.
He sees everything that is high: He is king over all the sons of pride."