God we cry for the children.
For the children who have known nothing else,
but war and strife, and chaos.
And loss upon loss upon loss.
Who have run out of tears, and options.
Who trapped sit silenced in shock.
Eyes speaking of a hope
draining out with the blood of the lost.
Has God forgotten the children,
has he left and turned out the light?
Can we believe to find him in the darkness,
can the children see him at all?
And the mother who lost her off-spring,
can he reach her in her heart?
Can he give her a future and a hope
or has the loss cost her too much?
All I know is, God loves the children.
Bring them to me he said.
And he hears the hopeless cries
of the broken, the disbelieving, and bereft.
And although a mother weeps for her children,
and may not be comforted,
a young boy still reaches out to her
while the sibling in his arms lies dead.
No the light has not gone out in Aleppo.
It still shines through the human spirit.
It still burns, albeit weakly,
in the eyes of those who are left.
And in the hands of those who comfort,
who tend and help and treat,
against all odds the injuries,
that never seem to cease.
And although we find it hard to believe,
God is still present there.
And we bring to him the children,
while our hearts break in prayer.
We bring them to a Saviour,
who knows that they are there.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
“A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”
“Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star.”
(Picture from Pinterest)
One thought on “A Poem: For the Children of War”
beautiful, beautiful, made me cry; lovely and lovingly constructed and meant, a cry from all our hearts. Thank you dear, your poetry continues to soar. love mum