Let My people go, the prophet pleads, But Pharaoh’s heart is stone, not seed. So, heaven stirs the Nile’s deep veins, and frogs arise like holy rain.

They leap through palace, oven, bowl, A croaking choir with no control. No bed is spared, no servant free, the judgment sings amphibiously.

Sacred symbols turned to dread, what once worship now brings bedlam instead. The gods of Egypt mocked by sound, as frogs in heaps defile the ground.

Pharaoh relents, then takes it back, His promise drowned in frog-filled stacks. The stench remains, the vow decays, freedom waits through longer days.

Yet even here, God’s mercy flows: He lets the tyrant choose the close. And when the frogs are gone at last, the hardened heart still marches on.