The Cry of a Missionary Syrian

Vindicate me O Lord from the claws of those that are hostile to peace.

Hear me as I covertly echo the powerful prayers within the weak walls of my compartment.
We beg for peace and that’s all we are beggers for.
Let Your beloved word enter my heart and multiply within me compassion, mercy and truth that I may heal those that can no elsewhere find your healing.
Reentrant me to your holy tabernacle and let my children be as the little man of thine eye.
Flush out my transgression and let not the stench of my iniquity exist to give birth to its remembrance.
Take all my sins to the pigs and let them drown into the depths of the ocean tides.

Feed my flesh and let not my ear to hear the breaking bones of those I love.
We beg for bread, yes even thy bread of life.
And though our children die, we shall remember that thine only Son died as well.

The world mocks at You as it has mocked at thy prophets.
The world mocks Thee as it had mocked at Jesus.
They ask ‘where is God when innocent Syrians are dying?’
The world mocks at Thee as if they’ve ever known Thee.
‘Where is his so called justice and love divine’ they say,
‘when innocent children are dying for the sins of those on high thrones and yet short of heart?’

And who can answer these questions but thee o King of all wisdom?
If men were made a little lower than angels then how shall we expect to have more knowledge than angels?
And why is Satan hidden from the conversation when we are treated the worth of fake necklaces and bangles?

Would it be wise in our misery to complain to a Saviour that has power to rise the dead?
Or to cast contempt upon He who’s suffered more than we?

Nay, tis men that has chosen sin and shall take the blame for the peace they already took from us.

Only You can avenge us from the terror of their heartless torsos,
those who rest their heads on pillows of cash and awake just to get some more.
They have sacrificed our peace and the smoke of nuclear artillery is the incense they condone.
My mother sleeps less than a soldier and my siblings rest their heads on pillows of stone.
The good pillows are upstairs, but it is suicidal to go above underground.
We use to rest in peace but now would be lucky not to rest in pieces.

Need we go six more feet underground? There neither man has any memory of You nor can I praise you while dead.

But save me if it is within your wisdom to save me now,
That I may live and direct those in darkness to the sunlit path of your loving grace.
So shall they know my God that has stretched His chord of grace and lifted me from the prison of sin and evil beings.
Who gives riches to the meek and to those that call upon Him He grants rest in the comfort of His wings.
Amen.