It's Sunday Morning, Attorney Sara Mollo
What you see and hear must be traumatizing
For you and your devoted staff —
Defending souls accused of horrors
Against the very children they once were.
Children bound over as adults,
With minds still reaching for the light,
Unable to measure the gravity
Of the darkness they’ve entered.
It is Sunday morning, and you have chosen
Coffee over Wine or a Bloody Mary.
The phones are silent, the city hushed,
Sunlight soft across the files.
The bleached blonde attorney, weary yet steadfast,
You shoulder their sorrow, their guilt, their silence.
Justice is never clean,
Yet your heart remains unbroken.
There are cases that shatter belief,
And nights that deny you rest —
When innocence feels like a story told
By someone who no longer believes.
But mercy hides in your labor,
In each word spoken with care,
In the smallest gesture of grace
That no one sees but God.
Even when verdicts wound,
Even when truth feels blurred by fear,
The soul that still weeps for the broken
Is proof that goodness endures.
And on this quiet Sunday morning,
As light spills gently across your desk,
You are forgiven for your weariness —
You have chosen love disguised as law,
And that is holy work.
Respectfully,
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