Thou shalt not kill,
yet here, among reeds and rivers, a firstborn's breath ends,
Exodus cracks open like a newborn's skull.
In Egypt, a cradle never rocks again,
mothers cleave air with wails—where is your God now?
Not a house without the dead. No mercy among plagues,
just the stillness of lifeless sons,
their small hands curled as if clutching something stolen
before even learning to grasp.
(Exodus 12:29-30)
Is this what God being pro-life looks like?
Thou shalt not kill.
And then the rain. Genesis speaks not of salvation
but of a sky rupturing—an ocean in collapse.
It was not only men, but infants swallowed whole,
babies gasping salt before sleep. Arkless mothers weeping
as waves carried their children's last laughter
into the open throats of the abyss.
Tell me: What justice drowns
before it can take its first step?
(Genesis 7:21-23)
Thou shalt not kill.
Sodom's pillars of salt
were not just wicked men turned to ruin.
Innocent hands clung to skirts and tunics
as fire scoured the faces of little ones too young
to know sin's name.
Is God's wrath so indiscriminate,
that even babes must bear the flame?
No exceptions beneath that brimstone sky.
(Genesis 19:24-25)
Thou shalt not kill.
The Amalekite children—
bundled in fear and blankets. A command sharp as steel:
"Do not spare the infant, do not spare the suckling."
No lullabies tonight—only swords.
A quiet town reduced to silence
by the hand of a God whispered holy.
Samuel's word was clear: extinction is obedience.
(1 Samuel 15:3)
Thou shalt not kill.
Thou shalt not kill, yet there—
in a Midianite village—boys slaughtered at dawn.
Virgin girls spared only to carry grief in their marrow.
Women, mothers—slain for birthing sons deemed unworthy.
Can you hear their voices beneath the sand?
The ones left alive are told:
Carry this trauma in your bodies. Serve your captors.
Tell me, what does the divine smell like? Blood and dust?
(Numbers 31:17-18)
Thou shalt not kill.
Jericho's curse—
rebuild your city and bury your sons within its walls.
A gate for each child, stone for stone, flesh for brick.
What God would demand foundations of innocence?
What gospel carries a death warrant
signed in mortar and human marrow?
(1 Kings 16:34)
Thou shalt not kill.
Hosea's God promises broken skulls,
promises the babes of Samaria will lie shattered.
They will never rise, their faces unkissed by morning.
What covenant is this, when the only sacrament
is grief ground to powder?
The faithful lift their heads and call it righteousness.
(Hosea 13:16)
Thou shalt not kill.
In Babylon, Psalmists sing with knives between their teeth:
"Happy are those who dash your children against rocks."
God's laughter mingles with the sound of shattering skulls.
A lullaby of revenge sung over cribs—
do you hear the cadence of violence
rising like incense? Can you name
this righteousness that spills like red milk
onto stones?
(Psalm 137:9, Isaiah 13:16)
Thou shalt not kill.
In the wilderness, serpents slither, fangs gleaming—
sent by divine decree. Snakes sink into flesh,
venom kissing the innocent and guilty alike.
Beneath the stars, children sleep forever,
their veins salted by death's hiss.
Did these deaths amuse the heavens?
Or were they merely another brushstroke
in the Creator's masterpiece of suffering?
(Numbers 21:6)
Thou shalt not kill.
And Job—
a righteous man wagered away like dice in a tavern.
His children crushed beneath falling walls,
their deaths an afterthought in the great divine game.
Job's tears burn rivers into the sand, but God is silent,
counting his winnings in ruined lives.
"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,"
they say.
Tell me, what kind of gift
is the promise of sorrow?
(Job 1:18-19, Job 1:21)
Thou shalt not kill.
And when Herod's soldiers draw their swords,
slaughtering Bethlehem's infants in their sleep,
God watches from behind the veil.
Is this the cost of prophecy?
Must revelation always bleed?
Must innocence always be a casualty
of divine intent?
(Matthew 2:16-18)
Thou shalt not kill.
This is the handiwork of the divine, they say—
a tapestry woven with death's needle.
And yet we call Him good.
Yet we lift hymns to His name,
even as the bones beneath our feet
sing a darker song.
There is no debate here, no apologetics.
Here are the corpses. Here is the command.
Thou shalt not kill.
A history of slaughter written in holy ink.
If this is God,
then mercy is an illusion.
And the only truth beneath heaven
is the weight of bodies too small
to carry the sins placed upon them.
(And though many say this is what Jesus died for, pointing to His sacrifice as the atonement for all sin, it is worth remembering that this salvation was bought with yet another death—this time, the death of His Son. Even this act—another innocent life given, His child sacrificed—was chosen by the Creator. If the bodies of children, too small to carry such burdens, are crushed beneath sin's weight, then we must ask: What does this choice say about Him? If the Lord claims to never change—if both His nature and His actions remain consistent across time—then what does that reveal about mercy, justice, or love? Malachi 3:6 declares, "I am the Lord, I change not." Hebrews 13:8 echoes, "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.")
Is this what God being pro-life looks like?
There is nothing left to question.
This is His handiwork.
Here, on display, for all to see.
Thou shalt not kill.
And yet.
