There are mornings when the weight of human suffering—disease that spreads beyond measure, violence rooted in hatred, parents forced to make impossible choices between their children’s survival and their dignity, aid blocked from those who need it—threatens to overwhelm. The ancient writer of Lamentations knew this weight, this season of darkness where affliction seems to swallow everything. Yet from that place of honest grief comes a quiet insistence: mercies are renewed each morning. Not because the suffering disappears, but because faithfulness itself—God’s, and ours toward one another—persists as a stubborn fact. To notice this on a day of such sorrow is not to deny the sorrow, but to hold both truths at once.