the red-handed we

Certain of your guilt,

they placed you at his feet.

 

Demanding that he judge you

according to your deeds.

 

Trembling you stood waiting,

the sunshine no relief.

 

Surely he would take their side,

and measure with great grief.

 

You saw him bend and write,

a message in the sand.

 

Unceasingly they questioned,

a judgement was their plan.

 

His answer was so simple

and yet it saved a life:

“Any of you who is without sin,

be the first to decide.”

 

Eyes glued to the sand,

his message there a haze.

You waited for the stone-cold blow,

death’s unending maze.

 

One by one they left

feet dragging under truth.

When all were gone

he rose once more and asked you to look up.

 

“Where are your accusers?

Is no one left to judge?”

“No one,” you responded.

“Then let it be so.

Go and be free

of all that has enchained.

Neither do I condemn you.

I tell you: Go, in love.”

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