28 The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling.
29 As stubble have darts been reckoned, And he laugheth at the shaking of a javelin.
30 Under him 'are' sharp points of clay, He spreadeth gold on the mire.
31 He causeth to boil as a pot the deep, The sea he maketh as a pot of ointment.
32 After him he causeth a path to shine, One thinketh the deep to be hoary.
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