and his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn.
sparks of fire leap forth.
as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.
and a flame comes forth from his mouth.
and terror dances before him.
firmly cast on him and immovable.
hard as the lower millstone.
at the crashing they are beside themselves.
nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin.
and bronze as rotten wood.
for him, sling stones are turned to stubble.
he laughs at the rattle of javelins.
he spreads himself like a threshing sledge on the mire.
he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
one would think the deep to be white-haired.
a creature without fear.
he is king over all the sons of pride.”