On This Sunday Morning: The Bombing in Birmingham

A deafening explosion
Shattering the morning silence
Then all is quiet
But soon
There are painful moans
And wailing children
Mothers racing to the scene
Breathing heavily and
Calling their child’s name
No joyous songs
Or children’s giggles
No church bells were ringing
On this Sunday morning

Muffled cries
Of injured children
Fancy white dresses
Black from ash
Shiny new shoes
Scattered in the rubble
A river of tears
Mixing with the debris
A place once filled with comfort
Now contains fear
No songs would drift up to Heaven
On this Sunday morning

Hatred has come
In the form of a bomb
And those left behind
Who have seen Death’s face
Struggle to understand
And ask why
Why even innocent children
Are hated because they’re different
And why someone would be
Cruel enough to destroy
That little church in Birmingham
On this Sunday morning