The footmen throng in close battalions pressed;
    The chariots thunder; to the saddle spring
    The riders of the Nile, as forth they fling
  Egypt’s proud banner with the serpent crest.

  And now, forgetful of the bondage past,
    Thy children, tortured by the desert heat,
    Drag to the Red Sea’s brink their weary feet,
  And on its sandy margin rest at last.

  See! with their forsworn king the savage foe
    Draws nigh:  the threatening squadrons nearer ride;
    But ever onward urged the intrepid guide
  And through the waves bade Israel fearless go.

  Before that steadfast march the billows fall,
    Then raise on either hand their crystal mass,
    While through the sundered deep Thy people pass
  And ocean guards them with a liquid wall.

  But, mad with baffled rage, the dusky horde
    Of Egypt, by their impious despot led,
    Athirst the hated Hebrews’ blood to shed
  Pursued, all reckless of the o’er-arching flood.

  Swift as the wind the royal squadrons ride,
    But swifter yet the crystal barriers break,
    The waves exultantly their bounds forsake
  And roll together in a roaring tide.

  ’Mid steeds and chariots and drifting mail
    The drowned lords of Egypt found a grave
    With all their swart retainers ’neath the wave;
  And in their haughty courts the mourners wail.

  What tongue, O Christ, Thy glories can unfold? 
    Thine was the arm, outstretched in wrath, that made
    The stricken land of Pharaoh, sore afraid,
  Bow down before Thy minister of old.

  Thy pathless deep did at the voice restrain
    Its surging billows, till with Thee for guide
    Thy host passed scathless, and the refluent tide
  Swept down the wicked to the engulfing main.

  At Thy command the desert, parched and dry,
    Breaks into laughing rills, and water clear
    Wells from the smitten rock Thy flock to cheer
  And quench their thirst beneath that brazen sky.

  Then Marah’s bitterness grew passing sweet,
    Touched by the mystic tree; so by the grace
    Of Thine own Tree, O Christ, our sinful race
  Regains its lost hopes at Thy pierced feet.

  Faster than icy hail the manna falls,
    Like snow down drifting from a wintry sky;
    The feast is set:  they heap the tables high
  With that rich food from Thy celestial halls.

  Fresh blow the breezes from the distant shore
    And bear a fluttering cloud that hides the light,
    Till the frail pinions, faltering in their flight,
  Sink in the wilderness to rise no more.

  How great the love of God’s own Son, that shed
    Such wondrous bounty on His chosen race! 
    And still to us He proffers in His grace
  The mystic Feast, wherewith our souls are fed.

  Through the world’s raging sea He bids us come,
    And ’twixt the sundered billows guides our path,
    Till, spent and wearied with the ocean’s wrath,
  He calls His storm-tossed saints to Heaven and home.