Children happily skipping around a tree,
Playing the age when innocence was free.
Time has not grabbed its share of smiles.
Shadows have not stretched doubts on the line.
A father weeps, gently cradling his scarred child.
“Dear Lord, why? Why did it happen to mine?”
The laws of the land are made by the wise,
Not just in the mind, but the pocket size.
For want will never cease to be greedy,
And justice can be blind to the rightful needy.
Tearfully she waits at the gates, for a moment with her son.
“Dear Lord, Why? Why does he have to be caged in a prison?”
Somebody decides what’s right for this world,
Sending the young to die for the banner unfurled.
To right the wrong, or that’s what they say,
But they, on the other side, don’t see it that way.
She hugs her daddy’s picture hopelessly clutching his medallion star.
“Dear Lord, why? Why did daddy have to ever go fight a war?”
The dust had settled on Jerusalem’s street,
The clamor is over, the fear indiscreet.
The dream is in doubt, the crown is weak,
Miracles forgotten from the previous week.
A sweat of blood pours, as ahead, humiliation He does see.
“Dear Lord, why? My Father, why does it have to be me?”
