What were the words your finger traced
on Temple courtyard ground? See John 8:1-11 .
Words comforting the one accused? . . .
or rebuking man's self-righteousness? . . .
or words like those you'd so soon cry
from cursed and scabrous tree:
"Father, forgive them; for
they know not what they do"? Luke 23:34.
(For, after all, was her sad sin
more sinful than this their own:
their not seeing her, not loving her,
for what she truly was,
the Father's pure and perfect child,
and thereby healing her . . . themselves?)
What was the essence of your words,
untold by the recording saint,
unchanged by Rome's transcribing monks,
unchallenged by professed wise men
through two millenniums?
Or, could it be there were no words,
just thoughts, your ever-healing thoughts?
You left so many that could serve:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit . . . the meek . . .
the merciful . . . the pure in heart ....
Love thy neighbour as thyself ..."
No real need for words inscribed
on sand so quick to wash away.
No need to flout Sanhedrin law.
Just your sweet and freeing thought,
expressed in silent prayer—
reaching all, protecting all,
forgiving all, embracing all,
healing all . . . with Love.
