How does one keep a job-like stance
through all the pain,
the endless sighs, the helplessness?
Bouyed by tears that wash our wounds
and ease our throat lumps,
we keep asking: Why us, lord?
How long, lord?
Do you hear?
After each morning,
our eyes through dust clouds
strain to see the promise land.
And yet when a task is through,
Another mountain comes in view.
And we must climb, through heavy hearts
outweigh the packs we carry on our back.
Unlike your martyrs who glorify in pain,
We cry out: enough master, please hold your rein.
For our stone hearts need more chisselling
pounding, hammering, breaking apart.
Through the cleansing flame, smooth out
the rugged edges of our faith.
Thanks for the sunlight that will come tomorrow
thanks for the rain that will quench our thirst.
While vigil candles softly burn,
teach us to say: THY WILL BE DONE.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem