A Heart's Cry For A Thief

A Heart's Cry For A Thief In The Hands Of A Merciless Mob

Standing in a bus coming from church
I see a man mercilessly beaten beyond recognition.
Disfigured with only god knows what offensive objects.

Voices around me conjecture
He should be a thief; he could be beaten to death
they recount incidents of instant mob justice as we drive on away from the
sight

Questions run haywire in my mind
What if he did it; what if he didn't do it.
What might have driven him into this?
Is it fair?
What could be going on through his mind
What could be going on through his heart
Naked and broken, his dignity, pride and freedom snatched from him

Is his spirit alive, does his soul still live
A dead man whose body just has enough strength to lead him to the slaughter.

No one to speak for him
No one to defend him
Where are his parents
Who is responsible for him
What should instincts be doing in the heart and intestines of a mother
whose son's life hangs in the balance

The balance to the mercy or cruelty of people whose eyes of justification
for justice show no signs of sparing him

Well, I am well dressed in a car
A future in sight and a heaven in mind
Mr. Pronounced Thief Without Trial, wasn't in church today

Does he know God; where is his soul headed
Death is not a farfetched possibility from him from where he stands

Past statistics at least can attest to it.
Will his anger and disappointment give way for a surrender of a broken soul
to God

Will he give up without surrendering to God?
Will he be in heaven tonight
Will he continue his untold suffering without measure in eternity.

And who will lead him take this decision.
It's a Sunday and all cars passing by should have at least a Christian

Sanctimoniously dressed Passersby are not scarce
They've all walked and driven past
No one to speak for him
No one to rescue him
Where is the love for the perishing
Where is the care for the dying
I guess they ended up in the hymn books, Bibles and copious church notes.

Hearts growing cold without notice
Pains freezing without consciousness
Emotions dying unseen
God watches as his hands legs and voices on earth look on unconcerned

Sad and heartbroken I count myself part of the guilty.

When will we wake up to the loud crying but silent hearts?

When will our hearts give meaning to what the eye sees?

When will conscience look over the walls of public perception and prejudice?

When will heroes rise to the hands that hang low, the feeble and the
voiceless?

I hope while hope is vague.
I think where thoughts end as actionless as the word.

God help us all.

The writer is an investigative Journalist

ultimate radio, kumasi

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