Prayer of a Wounded Nation, Prayer of a Ten
The thieves sit high with hearts of stone,
they feast on flesh that’s not their own.
Insurance cheats, cartel chains,
a river of blood runs through our veins.
The widows cry, the children shake,
the righteous starve while tyrants take.
Their castles rise on stolen ground,
while justice sleeps and truth is bound.
Creator, I am torn apart,
a raging fire floods my heart.
I cannot fight them, I cannot win,
but in the Ten, we’ll rise again.
Take this fury, raw and wild,
this broken faith, this grieving child,
and weave it tight with threads of love,
to storm the gates of You above.
For only when our hearts unite,
the darkness cracks, reveals Your light.
No vengeance, Lord, no sword, no gun,
just one prayer beating, all as one.
So hear us now, we bleed, we bend,
but in connection, wounds will mend.
And all the lies, the chains, the shame,
will burn to ash inside Your flame.
Amen.
