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.
33 There is not on the earth his like, That is made without terror.
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