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And hide our wrath in every nerve, and onlyWait a fitting hour to strike the hands that pressUs down. Then came the officers of Pharaoh;They trod as lords, their faces flushed with prideAnd insolence, watching the laborersSadly wending their way from toil to rest.And Moses' heart swelled with a mighty pain; sadlyMusing, he sought a path that led himFrom the busy haunts of men. But even thereThe cruel wrong trod in his footsteps; he heardA heavy groan, then harsh and bitter words,And, looking back, he saw an officerOf Pharaoh smiting with rough and cruel handAn aged man. Then Moses' wrath o'erflowedHis lips, and every nerve did trembleWith a sense of wrong, and bounding forth heCried unto the smiter, "Stay thy hand; seest thouThat aged man? His head is whiter than ourDesert sands; his limbs refuse to do thyBidding because thy cruel tasks have drainedAway their strength." The Egyptain raised his eyesWith sudden wonder; who was this that dared disputeHis power? Only a Hebrew youth. HisProud lip curved in scornful anger, and heWaved a menace with his hand, saying, "backTo thy task base slave, nor dare resist the willOf Pharaoh." Then Moses' wrath o'erleaped the bounds
