I remember those days when I was a little boy, I went to a see the fair, rocking and jumping …

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You don’t own me, you can’t play with me
I am not one of your many possessions

Treat me with respect
Dont make me the subject of your abuse
Will beating me up produce you a male heir?
Does your ego get crushed each time I answer you back?
Did it make a big difference to your manhood?

Oh mother father why did you make  me promise never to leave my marital home
Why should I be humiliated by this man every day?
Why does society frown upon women who leave their husbands?
I long to leave and go back to my parents
Alas they will not accept me and I will have to go back
These scars will heal but what about the ones in my heart?
I suffer everyday along with the rest of my sisters on mother earth
Leaving my husband will only lead to dishonor

Stop this Violence, Stop This Hate
Stop this Violence, Stop This Hate

You may have married me but you don’t own me
You may have your rights but you owe me my rights
I will not let you ruin my life any further
This is the end of the line for you
This is the end of the line for me
No more
No more

William Cow­per was a famous English poet of the 18th century, he oft­en strug­gled with de­press­ion and doubt. One night he de­cid­ed to com­mit su­i­cide by drown­ing him­self. He called a cab and told the driv­er to take him to the Thames Riv­er. How­ev­er, thick fog came down. After driv­ing around lost for a while, the cab­by fin­al­ly stopped and let Cow­per out, he found him­self on his own door­step:  He believed God had sent the fog to keep him from kill­ing him­self. Even in our black­est mo­ments, God watch­es over us.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not thy Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

. . .