If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.

Deep calleth upon deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.

When I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a swaddlingband for it, And brake up for it my decreed place, and set bars and doors, And said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed?

The burden of the desert of the sea. As whirlwinds in the south pass through; so it cometh from the desert, from a terrible land.

He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd.