In stone He stands,
ten feet taller than any man
who ever bowed beneath His gaze.
Bathed in rising sun,
eyes unblinking,
He thinks:
This is what it means
to be God.
It has always been this way.
And it will always be.
Eternity feels golden—
like the sun in a spotless sky.
Each battle left behind Him,
each victory unquestioned,
every piece of history
polished to a shine.
But He can see it changing.
Eyes that once went wide
with awe-struck admiration
now stare solemnly—
or worse:
they start weeping.
And the little signs they carry
bear names
unknown to Him.
Voices and fists raised,
they descend upon him.
Contending with their rage,
He desperately defends
His very right to be.
But He cannot find the words
any longer.
Staring at the face of grief—
mothers losing children,
children losing sleep—
He cannot find the words
to justify his reign.
He cannot find the words
any longer.
Is this what it means
to be God?
Has it always been this way?
Will it always be?
In a cloud of dust,
He falls—
chalky, choking—
a heaving groan
as stone meets stone,
echoing
through the courtyard.
He no longer sees the sun,
but still feels it rise—
warmth brushing over
His cracking flesh.
From rubble and debris
He gazes up
at those who once
bowed before Him,
and He hopes for peace—
for the release of hatred,
for the release
of grief.
His own.
And theirs.
Image Source: Pexels
