How long, O Lord?
How long will the blood of children cry from the dust?
How long will hostages be held and celebrations be made of enemy death?
How long will the ruins smoulder,
and the wailing of mothers rise like incense
to a sky that does not answer?
The ground is drenched with grief,
the air is thick with mourning,
and the hands that should cradle life
have become become empty with pain.
You, who sit in white palaces of polished stone,
who sign the orders and sanction war crimes,
who shake hands with death and call it diplomacy—
in fighting monsters, you have become the beast.
Do you hear the voices beneath your feet?
The bones of the slain cry out.
You who forge war,
who sharpen swords and baptise slaughter,
who bomb the helpless and call it peace,
who twist theology to justify genocide—
your hands are stained,
your power is a lie,
your kingdom is built on graves.
But O Lord—how long?
Come quickly to the broken,
to the starving, the shattered, the lost.
Bind up the wounds no man will heal.
Speak a word to scatter the warmongers,
and lift the lowly from the ashes.
For the streets of Gaza weep,
The streets of Israel wail,
the rivers run with sorrow,
and the earth itself is witness
against those who butcher the innocent.
Turn hearts.
Turn swords into ploughshares.
Turn ruins into hope.
O Lord, do not be silent.
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