There is only sorrow here.

Are you comforting it, my mother?

I followed you here to find this woman yochabe...

You were the woman who was caught between the stones.

Until you came.

My son, if you love me, you will...

I love you, my mother,

But am I your son...

Or yours?

No, you are not my son.

If you believe

That men and women are cattle

To be driven under the lash,

If you can bow before idols of stone

And golden images of beasts,

You are not my son.

My son would be a slave.

His hands would be gnarled

And broken from the brick pits,

His back scarred from the taskmaster's whip,

But in his heart would burn the spirit

Of the living god.

Does this god

Demand a scarred back and broken hands

As the price of his favor?

This desert god is the hope of the hopeless.

Your place is in the palace halls.

You have mounted to the sun on golden wings.

You belong to me,

To nefretiri, to sethi,

To all those who love you.

Do they love less who have no hope?

Will you swear in the name of this god

That you are not my mother?

We do not even know his name.

Then look into my eyes

And tell me you are not my mother.

Oh, moses, moses,

I cannot. I cannot.