Written by Timothy Downing, Missionary in Ecuador

O Lord God of hosts, enthroned in the heavens yet near to the brokenhearted,
How long, O Lord? How long will You hide Your face while the blood of Your saints soaks the soil of Plateau State?

On Palm Sunday—March 29, 2026—in the predominantly Christian neighborhood of Angwan Rukuba (also called Ungwan Rukuba or Gari Ya Waye) in Jos North, Plateau State, Nigeria, Your people gathered in the streets and near the church to wave palm branches and proclaim, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” They had come from evening prayers, from family meals, from the simple joy of remembering the King who rode into Jerusalem.

Then the gunmen came—armed assailants on motorcycles, some in camouflage and military-style uniforms, radical Islamic terrorists driven by the ancient hatred of the Cross. They opened fire indiscriminately on the gathering spot, the roadside market, the homes of Christian families. At least 26 to 30 souls were slaughtered that night. Houses were not spared. The blood of the innocent ran in the very places where they had celebrated Your Son’s triumphal entry. The perpetrators remain unnamed by authorities, but the pattern is unmistakable: Islamist gunmen targeting a Christian-majority community in the long war against Your people in Nigeria’s Middle Belt.

These were not faceless statistics, Lord. They were Your children—fathers returning from Palm Sunday services, mothers shielding little ones, students from the University of Jos, farmers and traders who loved You and served their neighbors. They were the body of Christ in Angwan Rukuba, living stones of Your temple, cut down in the hour they lifted Your name.

Yet even in this valley of the shadow, we declare the eternal hope that cannot be gunned down. These martyrs now stand before the Lamb who was slain. They have crossed from Palm Sunday into the full victory of Easter. The same Jesus who rode the donkey and later hung on the cross has welcomed them home. “We do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope,” for You have promised: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.” They are safe in the Father’s house where no terrorist can reach, where every tear is wiped away, where the palm branches they waved on earth are now eternal praises before Your throne. Death did not win. Christ has won.

But O God of justice, hear our mournful cry!
How long will the wicked sharpen their blades against Your anointed?
How long will the blood of Your servants be cheap in the eyes of men?
Rise up, O Lord! Rend the heavens and come down!
Let the Rider on the white horse appear—the Faithful and True, whose eyes are like blazing fire and whose robe is dipped in blood. Let Him tread the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty upon the heads of these murderers and all who send them. Let the earth drink the blood of the guilty as they have made it drink the blood of the innocent. Avenge Your servants, O Sovereign Lord, holy and true! “How long until You judge the inhabitants of the earth and avenge our blood?”

Until that day of fierce and final justice, comfort the grieving families in Jos. Bind up the wounds of Plateau. Strengthen Your church in Nigeria to stand firm though the earth give way. Turn even this fresh slaughter into seed for revival, that many more may cry “Hosanna!” and be saved.

We weep, yet we wait.
We mourn, yet we hope.
We cry for justice, yet we trust the Judge who rides with a robe dipped in blood.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Maranatha. Amen.

A Hymn of Remembrance: From Palm Branches to Victory Crowns

For the Saints of Angwan Rukuba, March 29, 2026

Verse 1

In the shadow of the cross where palm branches once were raised,
Where the echoes of “Hosanna” met the darkness unafraid,
Twenty-seven souls departed from this vale of tears and strife,
Trading earthly celebration for the crown of eternal life.

Refrain:
Holy, holy, holy—the Lord God reigns on high,
Though the valley speaks of sorrow, His love will never die.
From the streets of Jos to glory, from the palm branch to the throne,
Every tear becomes a jewel in the place they now call home.

Verse 2

They were fathers, they were mothers, they were children full of grace,
Students dreaming of tomorrow, workers blessed in commonplace.
Living stones within the temple, hearts that beat with Heaven’s song,
Now they stand before the Altar where they’ve waited for so long.

Refrain

Verse 3

O the mystery of suffering, how it mingles with the light—
How the darkness cannot fathom what transforms our grief to sight.
For the same Hand that was pierced now welcomes each one home,
And the King who rode the donkey calls them to His golden throne.

Bridge:
We do not grieve as those without hope,
For death has lost its sting.
The Resurrection and the Life
Has made these martyrs sing.

Verse 4

Still we cry for justice, Sovereign, still we long to see You rise,
When the Faithful and the True One blazes fire from His eyes.
Till that day of final reckoning, bind our wounds and make us strong,
Turn this seed of sacrificial love into revival’s song.

Final Refrain:
Holy, holy, holy—let the earth and Heaven ring,
From the ashes of our sorrow, let salvation’s chorus sing.
We weep, yet we are waiting; we mourn, yet we believe
That the Judge who bleeds for mercy will never, never leave.

In memory of the faithful departed—may their sacrifice become the very soil from which a thousand palm branches grow, and may their voices, now joined with the eternal choir, remind us that no earthly terror can silence the song of the redeemed.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus. Amen.