Pentecost in Dust

The Galilean Druid knelt
And stuck his fingers in the dust.
The crowd that clamored all around
Had no effect at all on him.
Though every eye was locked on him
And his strange writing in the dust.

The woman caught in their affairs
Had heard that he was merciful.
She watched the letters that he drew
And prayed to read a pardon there—
Some sure defense, some advocate
‘Please God, let him be merciful.’

Instead, she read a full account
Of everything she’s said or done.
It was a detailed narrative,
Not just some barebones litany.
Her every triumph, every sin.
She fell before him, all undone.

While stones were raised, other eyes dropped
To read the writing on the ground.
The Druid stood up from his work.
He took in all their ready stones.
‘Let the sinless be the first.’
Resumed his writing on the ground.

Each eye grew wide while on he wrote.
They hung upon his written word.
To a man, each one among them
Read there his own full history.
No jot was missed or single tittle.
The crowd no longer spoke a word.

Then, one by one, each stone was dropped.
Not one’s good works outweighed the bad.
Each one believed his life, laid bare,
Was being read by every other,
Then one by one, they slipped and slunk,
Aware, for once, of just how bad

Their lives must look to other men
Who sought out reasons for their stones.
The Druid spelled out only truth
To quench the fire that should not burn.
His spelling stopped. He stood at last
And saw her down among the stones.

He spoke aloud. ‘Can none accuse?’
‘Not one,’ the woman spoke through tears.
‘And who among them would you stone?’
A spurt of anger, then of shame.
She stood and left the rocks alone.
The Druid smiled through his own tears.

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