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The Lord asks, “Where are you, O Man?”
“Come into my bosom, hold onto my right hand.”

Yet our hearts so cloaked in unbelief
We see and hear, but don't perceive

Instead, we look around for an excuse
That His call, His rule, we may refuse

This groaning world, steeped in deep sorrow
So Him we deny, that in grief we may wallow

With each joyless days and tears we shed,
How swiftly we do proclaim: “God is dead!”

And shaking fists, we cry, “Where is Your love—
O, You who sleep in Heavens above?”

“Worship no more,” we then declare, “He doesn’t care,”
“He’s left us to perish with the tares!”

But pause for a while and capture your thoughts,
To see if its countenance be as it ought

And spare a brief moment to ask your hearts
Why, from Him, we would want to depart

Do we honestly crave for His hands to intervene?
Or merely wish that our woes had never been?

Had we worshipped when there is no pain?
Had we praised Him when He does give gain?

Had we sought out first His good ordain?
Or do we come to Him to just complain?

Should, amid our trials, God receive the blame?
He, who’d given His shoulder to carry our shame?

Must He obey our whims, answer all our Why’s?
He’s suffered more, so that He’d relate to our cries

Is His friendship not enough, He the eternal King of kings?
Do we not think Him more precious than ephemeral things?

Fixated on the stains of sin, blind to the good rest
Displeased by what we have, demanding what we think best.

Is this not the reason, why God we’d refuse to see?
That we might say, “None shall rule my life but me.”

And for want to flee Providence’s hands
What’s left to hope for, but shifting sands?

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