Some Days With Our Brothers and Sisters

Hope is a precious thing
And I don’t know where it goes
When your child dies.

Every day someone dies.

Everyone is someone’s child.

And sometimes you outlive your children.

Where does gentle hope reside
When grief in force kicks down your door?
And where do fragile spirits hide
With all this blood upon the floor?

Teach me oh God of Wrath
Where the rain upon the earth will fall
And where the soul that grieves may go
When every hope has fled.

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