URC Daily Devotion 15th March 

‘It is the first of the great acts of God—
   only its Maker can approach it with the sword.
For the mountains yield food for it
   where all the wild animals play.
Under the lotus plants it lies,
   in the covert of the reeds and in the marsh.
The lotus trees cover it for shade;
   the willows of the wadi surround it.
Even if the river is turbulent, it is not frightened;
   it is confident though Jordan rushes against its mouth.
Can one take it with hooks
   or pierce its nose with a snare?

‘Can you draw out Leviathan with a fish-hook,
   or press down its tongue with a cord?
Can you put a rope in its nose,
   or pierce its jaw with a hook?
Will it make many supplications to you?
   Will it speak soft words to you?
Will it make a covenant with you
   to be taken as your servant for ever?
Will you play with it as with a bird,
   or will you put it on a leash for your girls?
Will traders bargain over it?
   Will they divide it up among the merchants?
Can you fill its skin with harpoons,
   or its head with fishing-spears?
Lay hands on it;
   think of the battle; you will not do it again!
Any hope of capturing it will be disappointed;
   were not even the gods overwhelmed at the sight of it?
No one is so fierce as to dare to stir it up.
   Who can stand before it?
Who can confront it and be safe?
   —under the whole heaven, who?

‘I will not keep silence concerning its limbs,
   or its mighty strength, or its splendid frame.
Who can strip off its outer garment?
   Who can penetrate its double coat of mail?
Who can open the doors of its face?
   There is terror all around its teeth.
Its back is made of shields in rows,
   shut up closely as with a seal.
One is so near to another
   that no air can come between them.
They are joined one to another;
   they clasp each other and cannot be separated.
Its sneezes flash forth light,
   and its eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn.
From its mouth go flaming torches;
   sparks of fire leap out.
Out of its nostrils comes smoke,
   as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.
Its breath kindles coals,
   and a flame comes out of its mouth.
In its neck abides strength,
   and terror dances before it.
The folds of its flesh cling together;
   it is firmly cast and immovable.
Its heart is as hard as stone,
   as hard as the lower millstone.
When it raises itself up the gods are afraid;
   at the crashing they are beside themselves.
Though the sword reaches it, it does not avail,
   nor does the spear, the dart, or the javelin.
It counts iron as straw,
   and bronze as rotten wood.
The arrow cannot make it flee;
   slingstones, for it, are turned to chaff.
Clubs are counted as chaff;
   it laughs at the rattle of javelins.
Its underparts are like sharp potsherds;
   it spreads itself like a threshing-sledge on the mire.
It makes the deep boil like a pot;
   it makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
It leaves a shining wake behind it;
   one would think the deep to be white-haired.
On earth it has no equal,
   a creature without fear.
It surveys everything that is lofty;
   it is king over all that are proud.’