Yā Rabb, You did not have to tell us. You could have asked for justice as a duty, as a fence, as a rule of community. Instead You opened the door wider and said: in-Allāha yuḥibbu al-muqsiṭīn. You love them. The same You who is al-Wadūd. The same You whose love is the meaning of every sunrise. You attached that love directly to the just heart. And ya Allah, You repeated it: in 5:42, in 49:9, in 60:8. As if You knew our species needs to hear it more than once before we believe You actually mean it. We will be loved for this. So now ya Rabb, take this cluster and make it more than reading. Make me a muqsiṭ on the scale of my children's evening: equal time, equal warmth, equal patience. Make me a muqsiṭ on the scale of my spouse's argument: their full case heard before mine is preached. Make me a muqsiṭ in the small business of my mouth: weight equal across friends and rivals, beloved and disliked. Make me a muqsiṭ when an enemy is wronged in front of me, so that I am the one who says 'wait, that is not fair to them' even when the room is on my side. And ya Rabb, on the Day when love is the only currency that buys safety, let me be raised under the banner of those whom You loved because they gave each soul its haqq. Not because we deserve Your love. But because You attached it, by Your own promise, to a quality we can practice every hour. Make us practitioners. Make us the loved. Āmīn ya Arḥam ar-Rāḥimīn.