— A Black Hymn on the LA Fires Unseen —
Lord,
the fire spoke our names in tongues,
each flame a prophet of what we’d lose.
I saw the block baptized in red heat,
the trees shedding ash like tired ancestors.
what is it about this city
that makes the ground so hungry for itself?
Lord, it hurts—
the ache of walls turning to whispers,
of roofs folding like broken wings.
the air is heavy with what we couldn’t save:
baby photos, love letters,
the laughter of kids chasing sunsets
now running from smoke.
but Lord,
You built us thick with survival,
spines strong enough to carry yesterday’s rubble
and still reach for tomorrow.
we sing through this pain
the way we’ve always done:
turning ashes into a song
so loud it drowns out despair.
You said let there be light,
so we carry it in our hands,
our hearts, our hips.
we are the children of burnt soil,
of hope rooted in cracked concrete,
of prayers stitched into the seams of our breath.
this city may burn,
but we don’t break.
we stack bricks with grief,
mix mortar with memory,
build altars from what’s left
and call it home.
Lord, it hurts—
but You are here in the smoke,
in the hands that hold mine,
in the hymns rising from our tired mouths.
we will rebuild, Lord.
watch us turn this fire into light.
