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“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 count the months that they fulfill? Or do you know the time when they give birth?
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They bow themselves. They bear 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 out, 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 does he hear 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 feathers 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.”