I am a man called Job. I lost my wealth, my home, my possessions, and even my children. My pain is unbearable. Some of my friends at least came to visit me (even if in silence), But you never came. Kýrie, eléison. Kýrie, eléison.
I am the woman the vigilantes brought to Jesus. I admit that I did it. I was unfaithful to my husband, and I am ashamed. Jesus spoke to the crowd. Then you picked up a stone and hurled it at me. Kýrie, eléison. Kýrie, eléison.
I am the guy who, somehow, came to owe you a lot of money. I asked for patience, but you pressed charges and I ended up in prison. I don't understand why the bank let you go when you got behind. Kýrie, eléison. Kýrie, eléison.
I was beaten and left hurting along the side of the road. Maybe I even deserved the beating. The man who stopped to help didn't ask. But you didn't even stop. You just drove by again and again and again. Kýrie, eléison. Kýrie, eléison.
I was hungry and ye gave me no meat. I was thirsty and ye gave me no drink. I was naked and ye clothed me not. I was sick and in prison (remember that not all prisons have bars) and ye visited me not. Kýrie, eléison. Kýrie, eléison.
Does God exist?
I want to believe.
But the people who follow Jesus won’t let me.
© panthera2, 2012.