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The victim’s faint pulse picks up; the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood as you put your ear to their lips. Orphans get parents, the homeless get homes. The reign of terror is over, the rule of the gang lords is ended.

But you know all about it— the contempt, the abuse. I dare to believe that the luckless will get lucky someday in you. You won’t let them down: orphans won’t be orphans forever.

GOD, are you avoiding me? Where are you when I need you? Full of hot air, the wicked are hot on the trail of the poor. Trip them up, tangle them up in their fine-tuned plots.

Time to get up, GOD—get moving. The luckless think they’re Godforsaken. They wonder why the wicked scorn God and get away with it, Why the wicked are so cocksure they’ll never come up for audit.