When Moses’ mother cast him on the Nile, Obeying the command of God Most High, She stood on the shore with a heart full of pain, And cried: “O innocent child, so small, so plain—If the mercy of God should forget thee one day, How will you fare on a boat with no guide or way? If the Pure Lord ceases to hold you in thought, The water and dust may bring you to naught.”

Why such a futile fear? Your child, our traveler, is now safely here. Tear away the veil of doubt from your eyes, And see—was it a loss or a gain, in disguise? What you cast away, we firmly caught, Did you not see God's hand? Yet you knew it not. In you, there's but a mother's love and care, But Our way is justice, and nurturing is fair. God’s deeds are no game, so don’t be misled, What we took from you, we can give back instead.

The river’s surface is his cradle now, The waves his nurse, and flood his mother somehow. The rivers do not surge of their own intent, They move as we command, to where they are sent. It is We who order the storm to rise, It is We who direct the flood’s fierce cries. Attribute not forgetfulness to the Divine, That is a heavy sin—don’t bear that line. Return to Us, entrust him once more, Could you love him more than We adore?

All of existence is drawn by Our hand, Earth, wind, and water obey Our command. Every drop that flows through any stream, Moves to fulfill a purpose in Our scheme. Many a lost soul have We led back home, Many the poor we've fed, left not alone. Who is poor is Our honored guest indeed, The stranger to all is Our kin in need. We call them near, though they may turn away, We cover their faults, though wrong they stray. Whatever Our needle sews, it holds tight, Whatever burns, has burned by Our fire’s light.

A vessel struck by a dreadful, deadly wave, Was dragged toward the sea’s engulfing grave. A savage wind destroyed its fated course, And cast its people into dark remorse. The anchor held no strength, the rudder failed, The hands of sailors trembled, hope curtailed. Skill in captains was but a fleeting thing—One chance alone could saving mercy bring. The cords and threads of sail were torn apart, The waves burst in, from every open part. All wealth and lives were swallowed by the tide, But one small child, by fortune, did abide.

That poor young soul, like a bird, flapped in fear, And clung to the sea like a mother near. At first, the waves curled him like a scroll, Then the fierce winds threatened to take their toll.

I said to the sea: No more storm or spite, Don’t ruin this spark, this longing, this light. Among the poor, let none be cast aside, This child is not meant to drown in the tide. I said to the rocks: Make peace, do not harm. I said to the drops: Flow not toward alarm. I gave the wind a command full and clear: Lift up this infant, bring him to the near. To the stones I said: Grow soft ‘neath his form. To the snow I said: Turn into water warm. To the dawn I said: Smile upon his face. To the light: Bring joy, revive him with grace. To the tulip: Bloom gently near his bed. To the dew: Wash gently his little head. To the thorn: Do not tear his anklet chain. To the snake: Strike not, don’t cause him pain. To sorrow I said: His strength is not much. To the tear: Hold back—he’s a child and such. To the wolf: Do not tear his fragile skin. To the thief: Don’t steal the necklace from him. To fate I said: Make him ruler of the land. To wisdom: Lend him an understanding hand. I brought brightness to all shades and fears, And turned every terror into peace and cheers.

They found safety—yet turned insecure, I showed them love—they made me endure. They acted much, but all was base and vile, Made mirrors, yes—but out of mud and tile. When they found themselves not on the way, but lost, They dug deep pits for others, at great cost. They sought for light—but only through the smoke, Built up palaces—on rivers, which then broke. They told grand tales—without a root or ground, Hired thieves as guards to keep watch all around. They filled their cups with poison and decay, Spun threads of hatred on the spindle’s way. They studied much—but lessons born of shame, They rode their steeds—but bridled none to tame. They made the devils judges, guards, and peers—In what court? The court of the Living Seer! They bowed their heads to stone and dust alike—In what temple? The temple of God Most High! They guided others deep into astray, And packed their bags with burden and dismay. From the furnace of self-love and pride arose, The flames of deeds that no good heart bestows.

We had saved that helpless drowning one, But once from death he fled, to lust he’d run. At last, that radiant light turned into smoke, That guiltless orphan—became a Nimrod cloaked. He rose to battle Me, the Lord Most High, And sought for help from vultures in the sky. I raised him up with kindness, love, and grace— But grown, he turned more wicked than a beast’s face. The spark of pride lit countless fires ablaze, And from its flame, were homes consumed in haze. He dared to boast divine authority, And tried to breach God's own sanctity. He thought with twisted mind and darkened will, He rose in pride—so we cast him still.

I gave command to a mere gnat, so small, To strike his eye, and bring his pride to fall. That self-conceit was blown from out his brain, Let him call no darkness a lamp again. If We raise up even foes with tender hand, Could We forget our friends, or fail to stand?

If such mercy we show to one like Nimrod, Would We ever be unjust to Moses of God This, ThePrior, is no speech of vain desire, Wherever light appears—it comes from God's fire.

It would be a great honor for Moses if you support it by minting the NFT here:

https://mirror.xyz/0xfc163498a06c0E1C1991661f1c43b91E1f046370/6j0RDnUu8-WbD-MYWcdLlxDB7zufNOoll9O-w5zM6Wo?referrerAddress=0xfc163498a06c0E1C1991661f1c43b91E1f046370

You can also support and subscribe to ThePrior on Paragraph.

#ShortStory #Mystery #Motherhood #CreativeWriting #SupportWriters #ThePrior #Moses

When Moses’ mother cast him on the Nile, Obeying the command of God Most High, She stood on the shore with a heart full of pain, And cried: “O innocent child, so small, so plain—If the mercy of God should forget thee one day, How will you fare on a boat with no guide or way? If the Pure Lord ceases to hold you in thought, The water and dust may bring you to naught.”

Why such a futile fear? Your child, our traveler, is now safely here. Tear away the veil of doubt from your eyes, And see—was it a loss or a gain, in disguise? What you cast away, we firmly caught, Did you not see God's hand? Yet you knew it not. In you, there's but a mother's love and care, But Our way is justice, and nurturing is fair. God’s deeds are no game, so don’t be misled, What we took from you, we can give back instead.

The river’s surface is his cradle now, The waves his nurse, and flood his mother somehow. The rivers do not surge of their own intent, They move as we command, to where they are sent. It is We who order the storm to rise, It is We who direct the flood’s fierce cries. Attribute not forgetfulness to the Divine, That is a heavy sin—don’t bear that line. Return to Us, entrust him once more, Could you love him more than We adore?

All of existence is drawn by Our hand, Earth, wind, and water obey Our command. Every drop that flows through any stream, Moves to fulfill a purpose in Our scheme. Many a lost soul have We led back home, Many the poor we've fed, left not alone. Who is poor is Our honored guest indeed, The stranger to all is Our kin in need. We call them near, though they may turn away, We cover their faults, though wrong they stray. Whatever Our needle sews, it holds tight, Whatever burns, has burned by Our fire’s light.

A vessel struck by a dreadful, deadly wave, Was dragged toward the sea’s engulfing grave. A savage wind destroyed its fated course, And cast its people into dark remorse. The anchor held no strength, the rudder failed, The hands of sailors trembled, hope curtailed. Skill in captains was but a fleeting thing—One chance alone could saving mercy bring. The cords and threads of sail were torn apart, The waves burst in, from every open part. All wealth and lives were swallowed by the tide, But one small child, by fortune, did abide.

That poor young soul, like a bird, flapped in fear, And clung to the sea like a mother near. At first, the waves curled him like a scroll, Then the fierce winds threatened to take their toll.

I said to the sea: No more storm or spite, Don’t ruin this spark, this longing, this light. Among the poor, let none be cast aside, This child is not meant to drown in the tide. I said to the rocks: Make peace, do not harm. I said to the drops: Flow not toward alarm. I gave the wind a command full and clear: Lift up this infant, bring him to the near. To the stones I said: Grow soft ‘neath his form. To the snow I said: Turn into water warm. To the dawn I said: Smile upon his face. To the light: Bring joy, revive him with grace. To the tulip: Bloom gently near his bed. To the dew: Wash gently his little head. To the thorn: Do not tear his anklet chain. To the snake: Strike not, don’t cause him pain. To sorrow I said: His strength is not much. To the tear: Hold back—he’s a child and such. To the wolf: Do not tear his fragile skin. To the thief: Don’t steal the necklace from him. To fate I said: Make him ruler of the land. To wisdom: Lend him an understanding hand. I brought brightness to all shades and fears, And turned every terror into peace and cheers.

They found safety—yet turned insecure, I showed them love—they made me endure. They acted much, but all was base and vile, Made mirrors, yes—but out of mud and tile. When they found themselves not on the way, but lost, They dug deep pits for others, at great cost. They sought for light—but only through the smoke, Built up palaces—on rivers, which then broke. They told grand tales—without a root or ground, Hired thieves as guards to keep watch all around. They filled their cups with poison and decay, Spun threads of hatred on the spindle’s way. They studied much—but lessons born of shame, They rode their steeds—but bridled none to tame. They made the devils judges, guards, and peers—In what court? The court of the Living Seer! They bowed their heads to stone and dust alike—In what temple? The temple of God Most High! They guided others deep into astray, And packed their bags with burden and dismay. From the furnace of self-love and pride arose, The flames of deeds that no good heart bestows.

We had saved that helpless drowning one, But once from death he fled, to lust he’d run. At last, that radiant light turned into smoke, That guiltless orphan—became a Nimrod cloaked. He rose to battle Me, the Lord Most High, And sought for help from vultures in the sky. I raised him up with kindness, love, and grace— But grown, he turned more wicked than a beast’s face. The spark of pride lit countless fires ablaze, And from its flame, were homes consumed in haze. He dared to boast divine authority, And tried to breach God's own sanctity. He thought with twisted mind and darkened will, He rose in pride—so we cast him still.

I gave command to a mere gnat, so small, To strike his eye, and bring his pride to fall. That self-conceit was blown from out his brain, Let him call no darkness a lamp again. If We raise up even foes with tender hand, Could We forget our friends, or fail to stand?

If such mercy we show to one like Nimrod, Would We ever be unjust to Moses of God This, ThePrior, is no speech of vain desire, Wherever light appears—it comes from God's fire.

It would be a great honor for Moses if you support it by minting the NFT here:

https://mirror.xyz/0xfc163498a06c0E1C1991661f1c43b91E1f046370/6j0RDnUu8-WbD-MYWcdLlxDB7zufNOoll9O-w5zM6Wo?referrerAddress=0xfc163498a06c0E1C1991661f1c43b91E1f046370

You can also support and subscribe to ThePrior on Paragraph.

#ShortStory #Mystery #Motherhood #CreativeWriting #SupportWriters #ThePrior #Moses