Please, God, don't treat me as though I'm dead.
A corpse that cannot react to any stimulus.
Though limited is my knowledge, I know I've had enough.
Time and again, You've said, "You have suffered long enough."
And yet, I'm still suffering.
You should, please, give me a lift -- if burdened is what You see in me.
But You haven't.
Why so, God, why so?
Is this the lot of those You've given graces?
Is being special synonymous to being cursed?
But I'm cursed already -- in fact, piles of curses are upon me because of my ancestral sins.
To the best I could, I've done whatever You say would release me from bondage.
But You choose not to set me free.
Or, is it how cursed my family is?
But I should have been freed by now -- even from a curse or two!
Or, is it You Who choose not to give me this freedom?
Am I Your toy?
Yes, You can do with me as You please.
But -- please! -- I ain't as saintly as Therese of the Child was.
She who gave herself to You as Your Own Toy.
I, too, am Your toy -- but a complaining toy as Job!