Inspired by Exodus 9:8–12

Ashes rose from the oven’s mouth, a silent storm in Pharaoh’s court. No trumpet sounded, no prophet warned, just soot, and then the burning.

Dust became judgment, fine as breath, sharp as truth. It settled on skin and pride alike, and neither could stand.

The magicians fell first, their spells no match for the God who speaks through silence and sores.

Boils bloomed like bitter fruit, a harvest of hardened hearts. Still Pharaoh clenched his jaw, his throne built on the backs of the broken.

But You, O Lord, You do not forget. You do not blink when the cries of the crushed rise like incense.

You scatter justice like ashes in the air, and it lands where it must.