Women-of-God

O great tyrant, powerful king, you thought you had won, thought power was strong. See: you were wrong. Now you lie in a pool of blood dying at a woman's hand, your head bashed in by kitchenware. The millstone is mightier than the sword. Fear went before you, destruction followed, fire swallowed women and men. They said you were unstoppable, they said you were unbeatable. They thought power was strong. Seems they were wrong. Ashamed to die at woman's hand, your head bashed in by kitchenware. The millstone is mightier than the sword. Not power is strong, but furious love, the love that burns behind the stove, the love that feeds little op

No mother knows what will become of her son - and if she did would that change anything? Maybe I should have seen. Maybe I should have suspected. Little misbehaviours, small cruelties. Maybe I should have known. Maybe I could have if not for that thing that clouds a mother's eyes. But even if I did would that have changed anything? No mother knows what will become of her son - that he might be a king, that he might be a killer, murderer of his on flesh and blood, tyrant, oppressor. Maybe I could have known if not for that thing that clouds a mother's eyes. No mother knows, but sometimes, sometimes, no, often, she asks herself: Why did I n

I would love to be an upstanding citizen, do what the law says. Usually, I do. I would love to submit to authority, obey my rulers. Usually, I do. But I cannot, now. For how can I obey the laws of man if they would have me break the Law of God? Don't you see the death all around you? No - you only see the law. Don't you hear the piercing cries of bereft mothers? No - you only hear the law. Don't you care for the vulnerable trampled underfoot? No - you only care about the law. How can you value something dead above pulsing, screaming life? How can you expect me, a servant of life to obey the rule of death? Sorry. No. I don't care anymore.

"But I, how can I help you? For he who brought these calamities upon you will deliver you from the hand of your enemies." (Baruch 4:17-18) Alone with the pain, alone without you. What can I do? Watching you as you go astray, watching you fall and be taken away, away from my loving arms. What can I do? What could I have done to protect my lost sons, to prevent all this pain? What can I do to rescue you, bring an end to these wounds you inflict on yourselves? What can I do? How can I save you? What sacrifice could this mother make? I'd make them all, I'd destroy myself if only if only I could rescue you. But it would be in vain. What can

What's in a name? Any name would be sweet unless you are burdened with the name they gave me. Two letters too many and the Loved becomes the Damned: "No-Mercy" they called me - just fancy that! "No-Mercy" - imagine the awkward looks every time I introduce myself. Picture little me, shunned by other kids, the brunt of every bully's jokes, a victim from the start of my father's stupid choice. What the hell, Dad? Did you even stop to think what it does to me? "God told me" - whatever! What about me? You made me your message but also made me messed up, blessed me with childhood trauma and chronic doubt in God. But guess what: I have learnt to

In the beginning was YES. The Yes of a Mother to new life inside her, the Yes of Love and potential. In the beginning was Your Womb, and I was nurtured, enveloped by Your love. In the beginning was the life you gave me. Thrust out into the world, I stumbled, helpless. Cut was the cord and I foundered, reaching for You. I lost sight of You. I forgot the warm walls of love that once surrounded me. I doubted your unconditional Yes to me. I feared sternness; I ran away, seeing my shame, separated, I believed, from You. But in the end is Your YES, a Yes that will never be taken back, a Mother's enduring, unconditional love, Your mark on me th

I'm so tired of living in a society and a world, Where being a woman, means being beautiful, Where the belief that a woman's sole purpose of existence, Is to be pleasing to the eye and pleasurable to the body, And her soul is lost to the idea that her worth lies in her ability to please. Even Christian men, in fact some are the worst offenders, Still fall into the lie that being a woman, means being beautiful, When did this become feminine? And this become- not? When did doing something like a girl, Turn into doing something badly, Why is this beautiful? And this, ugly? It's a century old cliché but let me say it again, Beauty is in the