The walls of a prison are thick, not just with concrete but with the weight of regrets, the echoes of mistakes, and the silent cries of men and women who wake up each day to the unchanging reality of their confinement. The air is heavy with sorrow, with dreams cut short, with the sound of shackles clinking against time itself. And yet, even in the darkest cells, there is something stronger than chains—hope. Yesterday, at exactly 10:32 AM, my phone vibrated with a message. A simple text, yet one that carried the weight of a soul seeking redemption. It came from a prisoner in Lagos, a man whose face I do not know but whose faith is louder than his captivity. “My hope is built on nothing less than Christ and righteousness,” he wrote. A cry from the depths of confinement, yet filled with a faith that even free men struggle to hold onto. It is in moments like this that we realize chains may bind the body, but they cannot imprison a heart that has found its way back to God.
A prison is more than just a place—it is a condition, a heavy burden that weighs down not just criminals but those trapped by their own past, their own guilt, their own failures. Some men walk free under the open sky yet live as prisoners of their own mistakes. But there is something powerful about the cry of a repentant soul. It is not a cry for pity, not an excuse for wrongdoing, but a desperate plea for mercy. And in this season, as both the Catholic and Muslim faithful bow their heads in fasting and reflection, there is no better time for those in power—the government, society, and all who have the ability to show mercy—to listen. Matthew 5:7 reminds us, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” If men who once walked the wrong path have now found their way back to righteousness, should we not, like the father of the prodigal son, open our arms in forgiveness? Should we not remember that every saint has a past and every sinner, if given the chance, can have a future?
Repentance is not a word; it is an action, a transformation of the heart, a turning away from darkness and toward the light. To those in prison who now seek God, let this be a season of renewal. The walls may hold you, but they cannot hold back your destiny. The chains may grip your wrists, but they cannot stop the work of your hands. Even in the depths of a prison, greatness can be born. Was it not behind bars that Joseph, betrayed and forgotten, interpreted the dreams that led him to the throne? Was it not in confinement that Wole Soyinka wrote words that would shake the world? Even now, R. Kelly, though locked away, continues to write and sing, his voice refusing to be silenced. A prison can be a graveyard for those who lose hope, but for those who rise above it, it becomes a training ground for greatness. To every prisoner who hears this message: use your gifts. Write, sing, teach, create. Do not waste these days in despair. The gift of a man makes room for him and brings him before great men (Proverbs 18:16).
Redemption is not easy. It is a road paved with heavy stones of regret, with long nights of self-reflection, with the painful realization that some mistakes cannot be undone. But grace is greater than guilt. Grace does not ask for perfection—it asks for a willing heart. The thief on the cross had only moments left to live, yet one plea to Jesus was enough to grant him eternity. “Today, you will be with me in paradise,” Jesus told him (Luke 23:43). If heaven can open its gates for a man who had mere minutes left, who are we to slam the doors of mercy on those who still have years ahead? Let this be a season of restoration, a time for those who have fallen to rise again, for those who have wandered to return home.
To those in authority, those who hold the keys not just to prison cells but to the futures of these men and women, hear their cry. Justice is necessary, but so is mercy. Punishment may serve its purpose, but transformation should be the ultimate goal. Let there be programs that uplift, not just punish. Let there be opportunities, not just sentences. A man released without hope will return to the same roads that led him to captivity. But a man given the chance to rebuild his life will create a future not just for himself, but for generations to come. As the cries of prisoners rise in prayer during this season of fasting, let there be ears to listen, hearts to forgive, hands to lift them from the depths of despair.
And to the prisoners themselves, let this be a call not just to seek release from the walls around you, but from the chains within. The greatest prison is not built by men but by sin, by shame, by a life lived without Christ. Jesus is the key that opens every door, the light that shines even in the darkest cell. Do not waste this time. Seek Him. Surrender to Him. Become His disciple. Let Him use you. Let Him transform you. The world may have written you off, but God has not. He still calls you by name. He still has a plan for you. And when the doors open, when you step into the world again, let it not be as the man who walked in, but as a new creation, ready to live in the fullness of grace.
A prisoner’s cry is not just a sound—it is a testimony, a plea, a prayer wrapped in desperation and hope. Some cry for freedom, some for forgiveness, some for a second chance. But let this be the season when those cries are answered. Let there be mercy. Let there be transformation. Let there be grace. And above all, let the name of Jesus be lifted high, even behind bars, because even in a prison, He is still Lord. Even in captivity, His love remains unchained. Even in the deepest pit, His grace reaches. To every prisoner, to every soul weighed down by guilt, hear this: your past does not define you, your mistakes do not own you, and in Christ, there is always a way forward.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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