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.
34 Every high thing he doth see, He 'is' king over all sons of pride.
Share this page