Rejoice in this love with joy, like a child who does not grow up, who lives the days with care, with small and big gestures in love.
Above all love
A hidden inheritance
- of Francesco Arista and Antonella Molica
Argument
- → When you are unable to love me, to love yourselves, to think of me, to live for me, do it, love me more, I, the Lord, present myself, call you by name and ask you for love.
- → From you I do not want torments, judgments, empty words, confused, throwing here and there in the world, I want words that go beyond the sound, calling me father and dad.
- → I, the Lord, wish that you love in joy, without sorrow, that every day you slip what does not belong to me with lightness and sobriety.
- → I delicately ask to you love, until you reach me, the father who understands your levels, is near you with care, listens and transforms everything in love.
- → My children don't feel loved.
- → Now my children feel they are not understood, because the mechanism where they live is made of emptiness, of nothing, of something that has no substance, concreteness and coherence.
- → My children must recognize the poverty, the misery of the world, which hurts them, look inside themselves, wonder who they are, where they come from, who they belong to, who I am, what our relationship is, look at the world, what surrounds them, they must recognize why they feel weak, fragile, without resources.
- → In front of love I am moved like a child by the sweetness of a mother and the tenderness of a father.
- → Each encounter is tender sweetness and love.
- → I love you with tenderness, with sweetness, always, first and for ever.
- → When my child discovers this beauty, knowledge, he can no longer do without me, belong to me, stay with me and I am enough.
- → The world invades my son overwhelmingly, in anguish, it has no law, no rule of love, it uses means that overwhelm, it destroys every one of my sons until it plunges him into destruction, it uses my son, it takes possession of my son without delicacy, without gentleness, without love, it struggles to possess, to use my son with pain, with torment and with breathlessness.
Relative arguments