Where is the pity?

In hallowed halls of Christ's church, a widow kneels, One son, her all, her heart that reveals. She prays, she begs, with tears so true, For protection, for salvation, for a miracle anew. The priest's eyes gleam with greedy light, As he collects his dues, day and endless night. But demons creep, with shadows dark and cold, And snatch the son, her only gold. Jesus watches, distant and still, Unconcerned, as suffering's bitter chill Grips the widow's heart, and she can't help but cry, "Where is the pity? Where is the divine?" The gods, they seem, to slumber deep, Their silence deafening, their absence stark and bleak. The widow's plea, it echoes through the land, But answers come not, and she's left with empty hands. In this dark world, where prayers seem lost, The widow weeps, her heart forever the cost. For faith and doubt entwined, a heavy toll, A mother's grief, a son's untimely role.