"Did you not fashion the universe from nothing? I have read of your countless wonders, yet where are they today? Has your mighty arm grown short, and has your power faded into history? Am I not also a child of your breath? What will the world say if they see my God unable to rescue me?
For days, months, and years, I have scanned the horizon for you. Voices around me mock my waiting, calling me foolish, yet a stubborn spark in my heart refuses to believe them. And yet, the agonizing whisper of silence is now louder than any promise of a miracle. Are you confined only to ancient text?
Can your power not shatter the boundaries of the Bible and reach into my reality? Or did Moses simply weave a tapestry of myths—lullabies passed from parent to child to soothe a frightened people in the dark?"
"Am I trapped in an endless echo, repeating a history of silence? Where are you, O Lord? If my faith is a falsehood, expose it, for you detest a liar. But if my heart is true, why do you remain hidden? Elijah’s altar was drenched in water, yet it erupted in holy flame. My face is drenched in tears, yet my prayers remain cold and unconsumed. Is the fire of old just a myth? Am I to be swallowed by the deep like Jonah, lost in the belly of the whale? My breath belongs to you; I am your child. I weep for your hand to stir, but I am mere dust, blind to your infinite design. Speak plainly to me, Lord, before the laughter of the world breaks me completely. I remember Golgotha—the spit, the scorn, the final, agonizing breaths of your Son. Is suffering the only guarantee?
Must I learn to play the hypocrite? Should I join the ranks of those who barter your name for gold, masking greed with false praise? Should I swim in their current, worshiping the trinity of 'My plan, My money, My God'? I know you despise the wicked heart, yet they boast of your favor. Did you answer them in secret whispers while ignoring my open cries? Have I lost because I refused to play their dirty games?
Your scriptures promise that ill-gotten wealth vanishes like smoke, yet I see no smoke. They prosper in comfort while I hunt daily for bread. Now, my own children look at my faith and see a fairy tale. Will you stand by and watch their pure hearts turn to stone? Has 'Jesus loves the little children' become nothing more than a scenic backdrop for a tourist’s camera? Does our cynicism not move you?
I know it is dangerous to question the Almighty. I am fragile, trembling, and exhausted—but you are the unshakeable rock. Show your face, so that my strength might be renewed to proclaim your glory. I hear the ancient rebuke: 'Who are you to question me?' Yet, are you not a Father? Does a father hide everything from a broken child? Do not let your wrath burn against my limitations. Your thoughts outshine the stars. Heal my broken mind, mend my failing heart, let life flow through my veins once more, and deliver me from this agonizing question: 'Why?'"