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Absence by Lelia Thomas

Oh Caedmon, Caedmon, lend me your voice.
The night grows long, and our heroes die young.
There is terror here, decadence and disease,
An ever-growing fear that death will steal us away.

God is not in our lives.
He is a feather flying on the wind.

Caedmon, grant me those precious words.
For when prayers seem to grace deaf ears, we cry.
And these wars rage on land and sea, swallowing fragile hope,
Even as we wish for more than self-destruction.

God is not in our lives.
He is a burned book of the Middle Ages.

Caedmon, what do I say to them?
Do I tell them they are wrong for wanting validation?
They long for it, though there is little to be had in science or faith.
Can anyone blame a man for his doubt?

God is not in our lives.
He is a distant figure of Time.

Caedmon, I must tell them the right things.
These souls must find peace in their hearts,
As yet we must share this world and cultivate these dreams,
Even as we bear the burdens of life together.

God is not in our lives,
And it is that hope we miss.

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Written in 2004. Can you blame a man for his doubt?