Mother India

Father God, You have shed Your tears for Mother India
They have fallen to water ancient seeds
That will grow into hands to touch the untouchable
How blessed are the poor, the sick, the weak
Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
Like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captures me in Your embrace
The serpent spoke and the world believed its venom
Now we're ten to a room or compared with magazines
There's a land where our shackles turn to diamonds
Where we trade in our rags for a royal crown
In that place, our oppressors hold no power
And the doors of the King are thrown wide

I looked through a team member's pictures and came across this picture while I was listening to Caedmon Call's "Mother India." I was brought to tears at the memory of this old woman.
Our team had gone about two hours away from Calcutta, and we were at the Christ Mission Ashram seminary. A small group of girls stood near the seminary on a dirt road, when an elderly woman walked with a cane in our direction. We stopped to talk to her, as well as the young women around her. The language barrier made communication difficult, but then the woman took my hand. I hugged her. She held me so tightly and began to weep. I do not know if she was weeping because someone lovingly embraced her freely, or if she was merely overjoyed. The memory of her is haunting. What a joyful, powerful moment in my life.