29 Clubs are counted as stubble. He laughs at the rushing of the javelin.
30 His undersides are like sharp potsherds, Leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.
31 He makes the deep to boil like a pot. He makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
32 He makes a path to shine after him. One would think the deep had white hair.
33 On earth there is not his equal, That is made without fear.
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