Stinging, ruthless words that pierce through mind and heart Swiftly, precisely, from lips of clay depart Arrowheads dipped in green poison find their way To an unwary target, without delay.
There is no peace at all for the wicked.
The tongue is a sinister, crushing weapon Who dares resurrect one fatally bludgeoned? “He deserves my verdict!” Rage seethes in defense. “He smashed my fortress with the least reverence.”
He is without excuse.
Yet the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…” He with the sad, compelling eyes And nail-scarred hands offered gently, steadily To a soul vanquished by frantic, chaotic “I”
He whose dazzling raiments from the throne hang unused Willfully submits to slight, beating, abuse As leather sandals cushion dusty, wounded feet He weeps; Fallen creatures smite head and side–they bleed.
Still the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…” Now, therefore, beyond excuse,