They built the cities, stone by stone, Pithom, Rameses, grief unknown. Their hands were raw, their backs were bent, their strength consumed, their hope near spent.

No rest was given, no kindness shown, just mortar mixed with weary groan. Fields demanded sweat and toil, Dreams dissolved in Egypt’s soil.

Yet still they grew, a stubborn flame, A people blessed, though bound in shame. Pharaoh feared what he could not bind, The fruit of faith, the will refined.

So labor deepened, lashes fell, but heaven heard what none would tell. For every cry beneath the sun, God whispered, “Child, your day will come.”
Inspired by Exodus 1:11–14