Chapter 39

  'Do you know the time when the mountain goats give birth? Do you watch when the doe bears fawns?  

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  Can you number the months that they fulfill? Or do you know the time when they give birth?  

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  They bow themselves, they bring forth their young, They end their labor pains.  

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  Their young ones become strong. They grow up in the open field. They go forth, and don't return again.  

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  'Who has set the wild donkey free? Or who has loosened the bonds of the swift donkey,  

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

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  He scorns the tumult of the city, Neither hears he the shouting of the driver.  

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  The range of the mountains is his pasture, He searches after every green thing.  

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  'Will the wild ox be content to serve you? Or will he stay by your feeding trough?  

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  Can you hold the wild ox in the furrow with his harness? Or will he till the valleys after you?  

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  Will you trust him, because his strength is great? Or will you leave to him your labor?  

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  Will you confide in him, that he will bring home your seed, And gather the grain of your threshing floor?  

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

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  For she leaves her eggs on the earth, Warms them in the dust,  

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  And forgets that the foot may crush them, Or that the wild animal may trample them.  

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  She deals harshly with her young ones, as if they were not hers. Though her labor is in vain, she is without fear,  

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

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  When she lifts up herself on high, She scorns the horse and his rider.  

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  'Have you given the horse might? Have you clothed his neck with a quivering mane?  

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  Have you made him to leap as a locust? The glory of his snorting is awesome.  

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  He paws in the valley, and rejoices in his strength: He goes out to meet the armed men.  

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  He mocks at fear, and is not dismayed; Neither does he turn back from the sword.  

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

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  He eats up the ground with fierceness and rage, Neither does he stand still at the sound of the trumpet.  

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  As often as the trumpet sounds he snorts, 'Aha!' He smells the battle afar off, The thunder of the captains, and the shouting.  

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  'Is it by your wisdom that the hawk soars, And stretches her wings toward the south?  

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  Is it at your command that the eagle mounts up, And makes his nest on high?  

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  On the cliff he dwells, and makes his home, On the point of the cliff, and the stronghold.  

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  From there he spies out the prey. His eyes see it afar off.  

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  His young ones also suck up blood. Where the slain are, there he is.'  

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