A great god is angry for he has brought a plague;

Blood: blood stains our waters- blood bought this plague.

 

Horrors erupt, frogs spew from the river,

then stench in green masses- Ra hot in this plague.

 

The slaves’ god has turned our dust into gnats.

Man nor beast has escaped, no spot left by his plague.

 

Our animals die, yet Pharaoh’s hard heart remains.

How much more to suffer? Having fought fruitlessly with this plague.

 

Boils, hailstorms, and locusts bring us, begging, to our knees:

Content the God of Moses! Our lot lost to his plague.

 

Then- darkness. So black it can be felt.

For three dire days we see naught but plague.

 

But far worse than darkness, death delivers the slaves’ freedom;

from door to door, it visits, our sons caught by this plague.

 

I am but one Egyptian woman; a mother left wailing-

for her firstborn, a broken Egypt- not forgetting this plague.