Pitch Black!

Pitch black! That's all that I saw when I opened my eyes. They must have thought I was dead. They needed to get rid of my body so they put me into this hole. Where am I? A ditch, a field, a family's backyard? Will I die soon? What hath God planned for me? Is there a God? Where is he, what is he doing? Is he playing cards with the grim reaper, or is he watching everybody's lives on a picture-in-picture plasma T.V.? Where is God with his mighty shovel to dig me out of my literal and metaphorical grave?
With an almost unconscious mind, I think about things other than the fact that I'm slowly losing oxygen in this makeshift casket constructed of plywood and held together by the bloody and rusty nails that confined Jesus to the cross. I start to lose my sense of fear that has loomed in my head ever since I opened my eyes to my premature burial. WHY WAS I CHOSEN FOR THIS HORRIBLE FATE!