29 Clubs are counted as stubble: He laugheth at the rushing of the javelin.
30 His underparts are 'like' sharp potsherds: He spreadeth 'as it were' a threshing-wain upon the mire.
31 He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: He maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.
32 He maketh a path to shine after him; One would think the deep to be hoary.
33 Upon earth there is not his like, That is made without fear.
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