Groaning

All the pain
I'm trying to hold it
But everything is so broken 
The pieces keep slipping through the cracks in my fingers.

They fall and shatter
more fragments
more broken bits
because I dropped them
they slipped.

The pain of my people, my streets, my world
And all of my own small bit of pain
All the broken pieces filling up my hands, my head
They're sharp little pieces
Hard to hold

And I can't see anymore.
Where was I going?

"You're a good, good God", we sing.
I slink down in my pew.  
I can't make the words make sense. 
But I need them to be true 
But the pain is too heavy.  
I'm pinned under it.  
And I want to stay here 
Because the freedom I preach of is eluding me.  
I can't see it.
I don't feel it.  
It's not mine.

Hey, God.  Have you seen this place? It's a trumped up mess.
God on your thrown.
I'd like to point that scepter at a thing or two.
Pick up that mighty lightning bolt and take aim.  

Example?  Just one... Aleppo.
I can't even look anymore at Aleppo.
Is that wrong?  
I can't watch them cower, get blown up.  
Starve.  
I can't look.  I'm covering my eyes. Shielding my heart. 
But how dare I?  
My God, 
ALEPPO.

Millions of shards.  Poking me, cutting me.  Sharp cuts festering into wounds and deep aches and impossible weight.  
I groan under the weight of it. 
And I can't get up.  
I can't look.
I can't.
   

"For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life."  2 Corinthians 5:4