We keep wondering why God doesn’t come.
Doesn’t do something.
Why God stands with divine hands in divine pockets.
“How long, O Lord?” we cry.
But the Potter becomes the Clay.
The Shepherd becomes the Lamb.
God with us
Is not the God we waited for.
Is not smiting
Is not wrath
Is an infant crying for his mother
Is a refugee fleeing with his parents
Until the way is clear to go back home
“How long?” we cry to God.
“How long?” God cries to us.