HEAL the WORLD

ALL WILL BE WELL

1. Through the love of God our Savior, All will be well
Free and changeless is His favor, All is well
Precious is the blood that healed us
Perfect is the grace that sealed us
Strong the hand stretched forth to shield us
All must be well

2. Though we pass through tribulation, All will be well
Ours is such a full salvation, All is well
Happy still in God confiding
Fruitful if in Christ abiding
Steadfast through the Spirit's guiding
All must be well

3. We expect a bright tomorrow; All will be well
Faith can sing through days of sorrow, All is well
On our Father's love relying
Jesus every need supplying
Yes in living or in dying
All must be well

© 2007 Detuned Radio Music (ASCAP).Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Mary Bowley Peters, Matthew S. Smith

HE DIED CALLING FOR HIS MOTHER

The morning sun hid behind thick clouds, as though ashamed of what the earth was about to witness.

They pulled this man through the narrow path that led to the village square—not like a human being, but like a rag, like a thing. His knees were bruised, his hands tied so tight they had turned purple. His shirt was torn, soaked in sweat, tears, and blood.

People shouted. Some spat. Others pointed.
“Criminal.”
“Wicked boy.”
“He should be killed.”
“What did he steal?” someone asked from the crowd.

The shopkeeper screamed: “My market money! Twenty-five thousand naira! He entered when I stepped out. Who else could it be?”

His lips were quivering. His voice came out dry and cracked. “I didn’t take anything. Please… I swear on my mother’s life…”
But his voice was drowned in anger.
Nobody believed him.

The first stone hit his forehead. He screamed, not just from pain—but from disbelief.
A man kicked him in the ribs. He fell, gasping.
Another hit. Then another.
They didn’t stop.
Children watched.
Mothers joined in.
Elders stood still.

As blood poured from his nose and mouth, His voice broke through the chaos:
“Mama! Mamaaa… help me!”

But his mother… she wasn’t there.
She had gone to fetch firewood that morning, not knowing her only son was being murdered.

They brought out a tyre.
Someone had petrol.
They poured it.
He cried louder, begged harder, shaking like a wounded animal.

“Please… I didn’t do it. I didn’t… I want to live…”

But mercy was already gone.
And then—the matchstick.

The fire roared. His scream tore through the sky.
He tried to crawl out, but someone pushed him back with a stick.
His fingers burned as he reached out for help that would never come.
His lips moved one last time, and no one could hear what he said-but maybe, it was “I’m sorry”, or maybe, “I’m afraid.”

And then… silence.

Moments later—too late—a boy ran into the crowd, out of breath, his voice shaking:
“It wasn’t him! I swear! It was the shopkeeper’s cousin. She took the money. She just confessed to me in tears.”

The crowd froze.
Mouths hung open.
Eyes stared at their bloodstained hands.

A woman began to scream. Another fainted.

They had burned an innocent soul.

A boy with dreams.
A boy whose only crime was being poor.
A boy who called for his mother till his final breath.

The clouds above could hold it no longer.
Rain began to fall.

Not to wash away their guilt,
But to mourn with the heavens.

We live in a world where accusations spread faster than truth.
Where a single voice can sentence a soul.
Let us not let anger blind us. Let us not forget humanity.

Tomorrow, it could be your brother.
Or your son.
Or you. 😔💔