The flakes of his flesh are joined together.
They are firm on him.
They can’t be moved.
His heart is as firm as a stone, yes, firm as the lower millstone.
When he raises himself up, the mighty are afraid.
They retreat before his thrashing.
If one attacks him with the sword, it can’t prevail; nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.
He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.
The arrow can’t make him flee.
Sling stones are like chaff to him.
Clubs are counted as stubble.
He laughs at the rushing of the javelin.