Chapter 39

Knowest thou the time when the wild goats of the rock bring forth? Or canst thou mark when the hinds do calve?

Canst thou number the months that they fulfil? Or knowest thou the time when they bring forth?

They bow themselves, they bring forth their young, They cast out their pains.

Their young ones become strong, they grow up in the open field; They go forth, and return not again.

Who hath sent out the wild ass free? Or who hath loosed the bonds of the swift ass,

Whose home I have made the wilderness, And the salt land his dwelling-place?

He scorneth the tumult of the city, Neither heareth he the shoutings of the driver.

The range of the mountains is his pasture, And he searcheth after every green thing.

Will the wild-ox be content to serve thee? Or will he abide by thy crib?

Canst thou bind the wild-ox with his band in the furrow? Or will he harrow the valleys after thee?

Wilt thou trust him, because his strength is great? Or wilt thou leave to him thy labor?

Wilt thou confide in him, that he will bring home thy seed, And gather the grain of thy threshing-floor?

The wings of the ostrich wave proudly; But are they the pinions and plumage of love?

For she leaveth her eggs on the earth, And warmeth them in the dust,

And forgetteth that the foot may crush them, Or that the wild beast may trample them.

She dealeth hardly with her young ones, as if they were not hers: Though her labor be in vain, she is without fear;

Because God hath deprived her of wisdom, Neither hath he imparted to her understanding.

What time she lifteth up herself on high, She scorneth the horse and his rider.

Hast thou given the horse his might? Hast thou clothed his neck with the quivering mane?

Hast thou made him to leap as a locust? The glory of his snorting is terrible.

He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: He goeth out to meet the armed men.

He mocketh at fear, and is not dismayed; Neither turneth he back from the sword.

The quiver rattleth against him, The flashing spear and the javelin.

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage; Neither believeth he that it is the voice of the trumpet.

As oft as the trumpet soundeth he saith, Aha! And he smelleth the battle afar off, The thunder of the captains, and the shouting.

Is it by thy wisdom that the hawk soareth, (And) stretcheth her wings toward the south?

Is it at thy command that the eagle mounteth up, And maketh her nest on high?

On the cliff she dwelleth, and maketh her home, Upon the point of the cliff, and the stronghold.

From thence she spieth out the prey; Her eyes behold it afar off.

Her young ones also suck up blood: And where the slain are, there is she.