The story of that moment, of the shirah, the song, is richer than you might imagine. It wasn't just a spontaneous outburst. According to Legends of the Jews, when it came time to sing praises to God, the Israelites first wanted Moses, their leader, to lead the song.
But Moses, in a surprising act of humility, declined. "No," he said, "you shall begin it. It is a greater honor to be praised by the multitude than by a single one." Think about that for a moment. He understood the power of collective gratitude, the strength in a chorus of voices lifted in praise.
So, what did they sing? It wasn't just "We thank you for saving us." Oh no, it was a deep, personal, and vividly detailed recounting of God's interventions from the very beginning.
"We will glorify the Eternal," they sang, "for He has shown us signs and tokens." They recalled the horrific decree of the Egyptians, "Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river!" But then, they remembered the miracles, almost forgotten in the rush to freedom.
Their mothers, forced into the fields, were granted painless births. The angels themselves descended, washing and anointing the newborns, dressing them in shimmering, multi-colored silk. Can you picture that? Angels, cradling these tiny children, preparing them for a future only God could see.
And the gifts! Each child received two lumps, one of butter and one of honey. A taste of sweetness, a promise of abundance, even in the face of despair.
When the mothers awoke and saw their children – clean, clothed, blessed – they didn't panic. They praised God. "Praise be God who has not turned His grace and His lasting love from the seed of our father Abraham; and now behold! they are in Thy hand, do with them as Thou wilt." A powerful affirmation of faith, a surrender to divine will.
And the miracles didn’t stop there. When the Egyptians sought to kill the children, the earth swallowed them up, hiding them in secret places. As Ginzberg retells it, God "didst bid the earth swallow us and set us in another place, where we were not seen by the Egyptians."
Later, when they grew up, they wandered through Egypt, eventually finding their families. "All this hast Thou done for us," they sang, "therefore will we sing of Thee."
The shirah wasn't just about the Red Sea. It was about remembering, about connecting the dots between hardship and divine intervention, about seeing God's hand in every step of their journey. It was a song of collective memory, a testament to faith passed down through generations.
What about us? What "songs" do we sing? What stories do we tell ourselves, to make sense of our own journeys, our own moments of hardship and deliverance? Perhaps, like the Israelites, we need to remember the small miracles, the quiet acts of grace that often go unnoticed. Perhaps, our own shirah is waiting to be sung.