Lord, please come.

So much sickness.
So much death of the mind.
So much dying of the body.

Slowly.
Like a flower wilting.

So much pain.
So much anger.
So much confusion.

Eating at me.
Slowly.

I fine it hard that you meant it to be this way.
Where's dad?

Why the suffering?
So we can know how you suffered?

Why the pain?
So we can know the pain you felt?

It is in your hands.
Lord, please come.