God of fury, God of fire,
God whose name they use to brand their swords—
To sanctify flame and make ash sacred,
To paint rivers crimson with the cries of children.
I see them lift their hands in holy ardor,
Chanting blessings over broken bones,
Praying for purity, praying for their enemies' "justice,"
Until their eyes have forgotten the glisten of mercy.
I see the wrath poured out,
And they say it's His,
They say it's Yours.
I stand at the periphery, dumbstruck—
What does this mean, that I follow You too?
The blood of their sacrifice on my hands,
For we drink from the same book,
From the same chalice of words,
And they have made it a cup of vengeance,
Have made You a warlord leading conquest
Across the barren hearts of the innocent.
I think of this as I kneel in my empty room,
A room without embers, without burnt offerings,
Where the silence is thick enough to hold
Every doubt I've locked away—
And there, in the quiet, I find the echo
Of a question that twists the knife:
Is their God my God? Or have they stolen Him,
Wrapped Him in iron and their own dark designs?
How do I love You, if You are theirs?
And how do I claim You, if I share their sin?
What if the same name that I call holy
Is the name they call to shatter dreams?
But still—I hear something else too,
A whisper behind the thunder,
A voice that does not roar but breathes,
That sings between the cracks of burnt wood.
A murmur telling me to hold still,
To look past the pyres, to see
The hands that tend the wounded,
The hearts that gather ash, not to scatter
But to nurture—to cradle flame
Until it becomes warmth, not scalding fire.
What does it mean to worship You, then,
When Your name becomes a sword and a balm,
When Your followers are both the wound and the healer?
Perhaps it is that, amidst the wrath,
I can choose the whisper—
To not forge Your name into armor,
To not wield You as a weapon,
But to kneel, hands empty, waiting
For something softer, something just
Beyond the grasp of fury.
And perhaps that makes me foolish.
Perhaps it makes me weak,
In the eyes of those who slaughter "in faith,"
But if I stand in Your true light,
If I stand with nothing but an open heart,
Let them burn their offerings—
I will walk the silent way,
Unbound by flame,
Free in the grace of what You might really be.
And somewhere, I hope.
