I love to write stories, but my heart is heavy and goes out to India; the lost and the suffering.
I grieve with you, India.
Our land is crying; smothered with heavy darkness.
Millions of tears create a cascading waterfall; the land becomes a swamp.
How long, you who made us, do we live in fear?
Father of love, do not turn from us as we turned from you and blamed you,
but look from heaven and see us stagger in our sorrow.
We treat our Maker disgracefully; our thoughts are darkened…
We argue and demand from you, who are God.
We admit you are God; you see our sadness,
Weeping with us as our emotions go out of control.
You allow us to be mad, but desire a sacrifice of praise.
You steadfastly remain the cohesive force we hang on to, lest we be torn apart.
You catch us if we stumble and will not fling us aside;
You separate us from our sins; as far as the east is from the west and patiently love and dearly prize the world.
You gave your own son; you know loss.
The world rages and chaos triumphs —only briefly;
Your plan; eternal life.