The lament mourns the slaughter of Christians in Syria, depicting a land once vibrant with faith now stained by violence and loss. It describes silenced churches, grieving families, and a reported massacre of 340 in a single day, framing it as a genocide. Amid the despair, the cross remains a source of release for the faithful. The poem critiques the world’s silence, urging remembrance and divine justice, and ends with a powerful plea for global action to break the genocide’s grip with bold, fierce voices.

O Syria, cradle of ancient faith,
Where the footsteps of Paul once trod,
Your soil, once rich with hymns of grace,
Now weeps beneath a crimson sod.

The bells are silent, the altars bare,
The sanctuary walls torn apart,
Voices of prayer dissolve in air,
A blade pressed cold against the heart.

How many, O Lord, must fall to dust?
Three hundred forty in a single day,
Their blood cries out, their hope unjust,
Swept by terror’s ruthless sway.

The children flee, the mothers wail,
Fathers shield in vain their kin,
Through churchyard ash and broken trail,
A genocide unfolds within.

Once guardians of a fragile peace,
They clung to you, their rock, their stay,
And still the cross brings sweet release,
Through shadows of death’s fierce array.

O world, why do you turn aside?
Your silence deafens every plea,
The meek are slain where once they cried,
For mercy’s hand to set them free.

We mourn the light extinguished here,
The faithful lost to hate’s decree,
O God of justice, draw thou near,
Restore what ruin cannot see.

Let not their memory fade to night,
Nor their suffering pass untold,
Rise, world, and break this genocide’s might,
With voices fierce and bold.