Luke 23:28

(Luke 23:28 – “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me; weep for yourselves and for your children.)

As Jesus carried His cross, He turned to the women of Jerusalem and said,

“Weep not for Me, but for yourselves and for your children.”

This week, watching our nation coontinue to unravel—its laws ignored, the People’s House defaced, the poor and working families left uncertain while the powerful prosper—I felt those words rise again.

This lament is written as a prayer for America’s soul, for our sons and daughters, and for every mother who still believes God can heal what we have broken.

“Weeping for Ourselves and for Our Children”

There follows Him still, a multitude of women,

their faces wet with history,

their hearts breaking like bread in His hands.

And He turns, bleeding,

to warn as only love can warn before the breaking:

“Daughters of [America],

weep not for Me—

weep for yourselves,

and for your children.”

For the People’s House lies in ruins,

its East Wing torn like the veil of the temple,

not in reverence but in arrogance—

walls that once held portraits of courage

now feed the dust.

And the marble cries,

“This is your house—

and you are letting it burn.”

The rich bring their offerings to the rubble:

coins stamped with their logos,

checks from corporations whose hands

profit from hunger and war.

Their smoke rises like incense

on the altar of a golden ballroom,

while kitchen tables wait for meals that may not come,

and Thanksgiving lists shrink with every headline.

The children ask,

“Will there still be bread?”

and mothers whisper back,

“Have faith, Child. For now.”

ICE stalks the streets with untrained zeal,

a new Pharaoh’s army without conscience or calling.

Our soldiers are paid in promises,

their uniforms pressed but their pay withheld—

while the tyrant builds ballrooms

and pardons his friends.

He frees the guilty to guarantee loyalty

and chains the innocent to fear.

Ranchers cry from the heartland,

farmers from fields gone fallow,

their crops turned away by distant kings.

The cattle low for justice.

The soil remembers mercy.

And seven million voices rose like incense—

women and men,

old veterans and young dreamers—

crying in the streets, “No kings!”

They were mocked,

as Christ was mocked,

their cries drowned by laughter

and by the stench of power defecating on the people.

How heavy is the cross of a mother’s love

in a nation that crucifies its conscience.

We have traded prophets for profiteers,

truth for entertainment,

and law for loyalty.

Yet still I pray—

for my son,

for my nephew newly called Sergeant,

for every child marching under a flag

whose colors bleed redder each day.

O Lord, remember their courage

when those in high places forget them.

Have mercy on us, O God,

according to Your unfailing love.

Let justice roll down like waters again,

and righteousness like a river through our streets.

Teach us to rebuild not palaces of pride,

but hearts of compassion,

where truth may dwell so children may sleep unafraid.

Until then—

we weep,

and we wait,

and we believe that even at Calvary,

You are still God.