Where is God?

What meaning has life?
What meaning to this strife?
When the world is rife,
With corpses rent by bullet and knife.

And we sit in our high towers,
Built by wealth and powers,
Ignorant that the world cowers,
Beneath death’s crimson showers.

Where is this God,
Who says He is shod,
With mercy, love, a straight rod,
Who would against injustice onward plod?

Where do his feet stand?
Or are they running to fulfill his commands?
Or what of his mighty hands?
Are they breaking slavery’s bands?

Where is He in this world,
So in turmoil hurled?
As in agony and death young girls,
Retching, bleed, and like spiders in death curl.

But He is there all the time,
He has given us the means to stop the crime,
Yet we don’t give penny, nickel, or dime,
That we might stymie.

The waves of sin,
That wracks this world again and again.
So the real question is when,
Will we stand up as men?

We are God’s hands and feet,
That we might meet,
Indeed no mean feat,
And someday defeat,

The woes of this world,
Strike down death’s banner unfurled,
That we might downward hurl,
This pernicious serpent who has curled,

Around so many lives,
Lacerating them like knives,
With the necrotic spines he drives,
When will justice, equity arrive!

When we stand up,
And drink the bitter cup,
And realize we must sup,
For this misery is our own sired pup.