The Torah says God "made the firmament." Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on (Genesis 1:7) gives us a sculptor's hand. The Lord, the Aramaic says, made the expanse upbearing it with three fingers, holding it steady between the confines of the heavens and the waters of the ocean.
Three fingers. A precise, almost humble measurement. The same image turns up later in rabbinic imagination, where the sky is held like thin cloth, delicate enough to tear. The Targumist divides the waters with surgical care — below the expanse, above the expanse — then lets the firmament stand. It is so.
What looks like a strange bit of anthropomorphism is actually a theological statement about scale. A universe is a small thing in the hand that made it. The waters that terrify human beings — the ocean, the heavens — are a breath's worth of work. And yet the Targumist lingers on the fingers, because mercy does not scale down with size. The same care that breathed over the waters in verse 2 now holds the sky in place.