Passage of the Red Sea

The Prophet stood beside the sea;Looked calmly to the sky:"Our God, in need we call to Thee,Make Israel's pathway dry!"

He smote the waters with his hand;The waves reeled back at his command,The foam-wreaths curled from the wet sand,Flung back on either side;The surges piled a mountain height,Two icy glaciers, still and white,Showed Israel's pathway dried.The pillow of the wave, left bare,Disclosed what years had garnered there,To make the deep sea-grottoes fair;Bright shells and shining sandLay glittering in the summer ray,Whose braided glory wreathed the day,And lit the pulseless tide that layPiled backward from the strand.That startled people lifted oneQuick, wondering glance toward the sun,Then looked upon the sea;They only felt that God had spoken—The tide of vassalage was broken,And Israel was free!

The Prophet whispers,"Come!"—they go—Men with time-whitened hair,Matrons, bright youths, and timid girls,And little children fair—They hasten through that parted tide,Haste to the farther shore,As though they knew the chilled depth sighed,Impatiently, to roar.

And Pharaoh, too, has dared to comeThrough those plowed waters, chained and dumb—That ocean thoroughfare;What though the clouds above his headBreathed thunder-mutterings low;What though the lightning, fiery red,Flashed forth at times, as though it said,"Man, darest thou to go?"What though he felt the firm earth shake,And saw the hills with terror quake—He dares to follow there!The steed leaps shuddering on the path,Urged by his rider's spur of wrath;Proud plumes are tossed where frozen sprayHangs white and feathery o'er their way;Those rippl'd waters lean!But Pharoah's hand is on his sword,His haughty lip its breath has poured,"There 's room to pass between!"Haste, Israel, haste!—they reach the strand,The Prophet turns and waves his hand—A quick-drawn, shuddering breath—A deafening sound, as though the skyHad flung its thunders from on highIn one wild shriek of death!And then the sea lay calm and still,As though its heart recalled no thrillOf the wild tumult passed;And the low murmurs of the waveWere sweet as though it held no graveWithin its bosom fast.There is a solemn hush of prayerWhere Israel bows the knee;The glance of God beholds them there,The ransomed and the free;Then from a people's heart upspringsThe hymn of praise that Miriam sings:

"Tyrant and slave,Under the waveRest on the same cold pillow;The Lord looked down,His smile and frownParted and closed the billow;He pushed the wave from His people's path,And dashed it back on their foe in wrath.Hail! mighty One, and just!Hail, Israel's trust!Our God!

"The skeptic proudHath found a shroud,Wove of the foaming surges;His people sleepIn the wild deep,Lulled by its tempest-dirges;And Israel's sandal hath brought no stainFrom the trodden depth of the parted main.Hail! mighty One, and just!Hail, Israel's trust!Our God!"