In dreams I walk down darkened streets
of the city I’ve grown to love.
My heart is heavy, my red rimmed eyes
fill with tears that fall for the blood
yet spilled, the cries yet voiced
but are waiting to be unleashed
unless violence dies and hate-filled eyes
are exchanged with God’s peace.
Flags are flying, allegiances made,
loyalties are tested and tried.
But in the middle of gunfire and noise
the voices of saints still rise.
And God still hears the heart-felt prayers.
He waters the earth with his tears.
But he cannot force them to hear his voice;
they must open their hearts to His.
War is the language of politics
of nations, tyrants, and kings.
But children are crushed and their homes are cursed
by the desolation it brings.
So they look to us in simple trust
while we bicker, struggle, and fight.
Dare we look in their eyes and give up our lies
to follow them into the light?
Cry for the roses of Donetsk:
for the hearts of the people to grow and be bright.
Pray for the children of Donbass:
that out of the darkness they’ll lead us to light.