Fathers, what then: when your sons are wounded? When your sons are hurting, what then?
What hurt and anger you must feel, when it's your own blood that's wounded.
Fathers, what then: when it's your son that does the wounding? When your son is the murder and the thief, what then?
What shame and hurt you must feel, when the flesh of your flesh is the transgressor.
Fathers, what then: when your sons hurt your sons? When your household is destroyed by those within, what then?
What grief you must know, when all of those who are cut and all of those who do the cutting are bone of your bone.
What if your love for your wounded son was your love for your son who did the wounding?
Brothers, why do we rape our sisters? When will I cease to wound you, my siblings? I seek the day I drop the knife and my family gathers to heal each other - to bring life to our dead parts.
While today is still today, I'm glad I'm not the Father. I'm glad I know not of the depth of that suffering. How slow you are to judge, for the sake of your heart for those, your children, who do the hurting. How patiently you endure.
