Below his roots dry up, and his branches wither above.

On the flinty rock man has set to work with his hand; he has overturned mountains at their bases.

It wraps its roots around a heap of stones and it looks for a place among stones.

Although its roots may grow old in the ground and its stump begins to die in the soil,

My roots reach the water, and the dew lies on my branches all night long.

By the brush they would gather herbs from the salt marshes, and the root of the broom tree was their food.

See how he scattered his lightning about him; he has covered the depths of the sea.

And you put my feet in the stocks and you watch all my movements; you put marks on the soles of my feet.

If you say, ‘How we will pursue him, since the root of the trouble is found in him!’