Aye, and cry aloud for the man who is dead, for the woman and children bereaved. Cry, the beloved country, these things are not yet at an end. The sun pours down on the earth, on the lovely land that man cannot enjoy. He knows only the fear of his heart.
Cry, the Beloved Country p. 105
From this passage comes the title of the book. A cry for what is and for what undoubtedly will be because what is is not making the necessary changes. The orphan and widow are not only not taken care of, this necessary care is not attempted, nor is the effort made to avoid making orphans and widows.
And it is a double blow. Men corrupt men and the sun gives no quarter, offers no reprieve. Man and nature conspire, it seems, to bring man lower, make of him more of an animal where might truly makes right instead of an image bearer where compassion, justice, and righteousness should be the order of the day, should be the attributes that are praised, should drive back the fear of man’s heart.
So the call: cry aloud. A cry of compassion, a cry of repentance, a cry of humility, a cry of dependance upon the only one who can heal the land. Oh, he may use his image bearers to assist in the work—to help call the dead to life and the vile to repentance. But make no mistake: it is the Maker that sends rain on the parched land and the parched hearts. So we must cry to him.
Lingering Over Leaves 