Speak to me, God of Liberation, who gave power to Harriet Tubman and the Freedom Riders.
Hear my prayer and the moans of my brothers and sisters, the trauma of ancestors past and the pain of tomorrow’s wrath.
Wake up, God! Why do you sleep?
I sing songs of sorrow, of hypervigilance, because if it happens to them, then why not me too, Oh Lord? Because if it happened back then, who’s to say it won’t today?
Do you hear my melodies or the harmony of the choir? The slave-descendant, undocumented choir, whose sound now resembles alarm bells.
Anxiety-strung acoustics, blood-soaked ballads, angry a cappellas, choruses that once calmed concerned hearts, captivated with justifiable fear.
Today, my people yearn for justice, overlooking a new nadir: a new period of receding hope, a new period of emboldened rage and transgressions against them.
The rulers lie. The rich steal. The racists kill.
I grieve the old progress that didn’t go far enough—change that only touched the edges but smelled of freedom.
I loathe the present day as history and law are erased.
I trust you have not forsaken the woman, child, or poor. Or immigrant. What about those oppressed?
God, will you walk with us through the Nadir? Hold our hands like a mother and child, protect us from those who wish to harm our beloved community. As Christ declared to the crowd: blessed be the oppressed.
Bring your power down to our communities and mutual aid huddles, spy on the strategies of our enemies, and transform their hearts with Amazing Grace.
Equip us with the armor of revolutionary wisdom. Supply us with the tools to overthrow harmful regimes. Give us clarity to question and challenge those in power. Protect us as Apostles staring down unjust councils and courtrooms.
Living God, your strength has lifted humanity from its darkest moments.
Lift us again, from the Nadir.
