Somebody played God last night.
That never turns out well, does it?
Somebody thought that someone else’s life was not worth living.
Very, very interesting.
God walked into that church and said, “Don’t bother praying to your God, because I am he.” Shortly after, I found nine souls in my arms. Premature. In the place of God. Death in the house of Life. Nine? What about the tenth?
I turned and saw the god-angry man hover over a trembling woman. “Do not be afraid, child.” He said, “For you shall be my Noah—the survivor. Oh God, Horatio, what a wounded name, things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story.”
But this God imposter was not like the sick prince who killed himself. He walked through the bloody church doors and stepped into the deadening night—intending to live another day.
The president, bearing the great face of sorrow—lips pursed with sadness, said these words: “Once again, people were killed in part because someone who wanted to inflict harm, had no trouble getting their hands on a gun.” His back held strong under the eyes of the nation.
If the American government followed what this man is saying,
I might be able to take a vacation.
Stop the violence. Stop the racism. Stop the guns.
As an impartial party, that sounds pretty good to me.
Most of my unnecessary hours are done on American soil. Murder after murder after murder. Tragedy after tragedy.
When will heaven come to earth? When will hurt and pain cease? When will the soul of suffering end up wrapped around my arms?
Someone played God last night,
Why do they freely give him the guns to do it?