Post by Scribe 06

He goes looking for his grass-lands in the mountains, searching out every green thing.

They are bent down, they give birth to their young, they let loose the fruit of their body.

The bow is sounding against him; he sees the shining point of spear and arrow.

He is stamping with joy in the valley; he makes sport of fear.

He makes sport of the noise of the town; the voice of the driver does not come to his ears;

To whom I have given the waste land for a heritage, and the salt land as a living-place.

Their young ones are strong, living in the open country; they go out and do not come back again.

Will you be looking for him to come back, and get in your seed to the crushing-floor?

Or is it by your orders that the eagle goes up, and makes his resting-place on high?

On the rock is his house, and on the mountain-top his strong place.

Will he be pulling your plough with cords, turning up the valleys after you?

Will you put your faith in him, because his strength is great? will you give the fruit of your work into his care?

Will the ox of the mountains be your servant? or is his night's resting-place by your food-store?

When it comes to his ears he says, Aha! He is smelling the fight from far off, and hearing the thunder of the captains, and the war-cries.

For God has taken wisdom from her mind, and given her no measure of knowledge.

Is it through your knowledge that the hawk takes his flight, stretching out his wings to the south?

Do you give strength to the horse? is it by your hand that his neck is clothed with power?

Is the wing of the ostrich feeble, or is it because she has no feathers,

She is cruel to her young ones, as if they were not hers; her work is to no purpose; she has no fear.

In his strength he goes out against the arms of war, turning not away from the sword.

From there he is watching for food; his eye sees it far off.

Without a thought that they may be crushed by the foot, and broken by the beasts of the field?

That she puts her eggs on the earth, warming them in the dust,

Have you knowledge of the rock-goats? or do you see the roes giving birth to their young?

When she is shaking her wings on high, she makes sport of the horse and of him who is seated on him.

Is it through you that he is shaking like a locust, in the pride of his loud-sounding breath?

Shaking with passion, he is biting the earth; he is not able to keep quiet at the sound of the horn;

Is the number of their months fixed by you? or is the time when they give birth ordered by you?

His young have blood for their drink, and where the dead bodies are, there is he to be seen.

Who has let the ass of the fields go free? or made loose the bands of the loud-voiced beast?