Bombay Christmas

The music is inside but we’re staring at the hillside
Dry and barren as our hearts within
We wore our best for the worst day of our year
Questions fall like tears,
“Is this the way it has to end?”

Kneeling at the altar, pleading for life
One hand grasping, the other around my wife
Alone in Malad, I shouldn’t have let them pay
But Biryani rice and presents can’t salvage the day

Will anything replace who we lost that day?
We celebrated the Gift but You took away
Our dream is dead, though false hope loitered
For 18 days before it cruelly departed

Is this a cruel joke?
Is this a divine plan?
Are there things too wonderful – or terrible – for me to comprehend?

Every child’s smile is a slap in the face
Every baby’s cry feels like a stake
Through a heart already torn
A faith that now is spent
A precious desire that is once again pent

Will we hope again?
Will we dream again?
Will we open our hearts
And believe once again?

Will it never make sense?
Will the wound never heal?
Will You be there always
Your grace to reveal?