The power of the stirring of dust
At that moment, the instant before
all hell cried vengeance,
the writing found its mark,
striking hammer hard.
Frowning faces fading to fear,
shame and the need to hide.
Law is law
condemning and unflinching.
Sure of itself,
beyond testing, questioning
or a spirit of truth.
He sat there quietly stirring the dust
with a stick that pierced defences
surer than the sharpest sword.
No spoken words,
no vitriolic accusation of tongue,
no pointed finger
nor slanted glance,
just the stirring of dust.
They all slinked away to their personal depravities
holding their wounds in pincered grip;
indicted by inner voices
a jury released by stirred dust.
He sat there, no vestige of a smile,
stirring the world with words in dust.
The words changed,
lust becoming love
as the breeze rearranged shadows.
“Sister where are those who condemn ?”
His words still stir the dust
and hearts of lust
return to love.
John 8 stones pause in silence
dust disturbed by holy hands
the accusers gone
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